


Infected

by xxSoliusxx



Series: A Guide to Solius's 035 & 049 Canon! [5]
Category: SCP Foundation
Genre: 035 does too a little bit, 035s genderfluid, 049 goes absolutely bonkers, 049s name is florice, 14th century italy, Angst, Little bit of Fluff, M/M, Other, Pre-Foundation, The plague, The usual tags, These tags are funny, mental illness™, murder as a coping mechanism, rapidy deteriorating mental states, this is mostly angst lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSoliusxx/pseuds/xxSoliusxx
Summary: The plague worsens, taking the doctor along with it.The mask watches.
Relationships: SCP-035/SCP-049 (SCP Foundation)
Series: A Guide to Solius's 035 & 049 Canon! [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769230
Comments: 22
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

The mask’s pace evenly matched the doctor’s as the pair strolled along the main cobblestone road through the massive sprawling city of Florence, Italy. White clay buildings and identical brown rooftops rose high above their heads.

Both he and the doctor had been located far north for approximately a year or so and had only just begun to travel down to southernly regions in the recent months. They had been together for five years–five _very_ long years throughout the worst thick of the plague ravaging Europe. 

However, as they began travelling more southernly in this year of 1353, the sickness gradually worsened the further they went and they trudged through growing numbers of severely high infection rates as well as a climbing death toll. 

Through the various small towns they’d briefly dropped into on their way down to Italy, the mask began to notice the significant increase in bodies. A rising number of corpses were witnessed strewn across the cobblestone and dirt streets. No one had the respect to move the deceased out of fear of the disease, leaving rotting stacks of sickly bodies piled by street corners. Moving from settlement to settlement, Florice tried his very best to reduce the numbers of the dead but it seemed even he couldn’t make a dent in the sheer overwhelming numbers. 

As they continued on, the death toll only seemed to grow worse. 

Along with it, Florice.

Over the course of the pair’s time together, the mask had grown acutely tuned to his partner. Subtle changes in Florice’s mannerism or temperament seldom escaped his notice. 

In the beginning, when the mask had first begun to notice the worsening of the plague, he’d observed only minor effects on the doctor’s psyche. Florice would occasionally experience periods of time after wrapping up his days work where he’d completely zone out, falling silent and staring intensely at the quill in his hands. Or other times where minor details regarding locations, parts of his procedure or even conversations which he once paid so much care and attention too, slipped his mind. 

From the mask’s perspective, he seemed to be gradually growing worse by the week. Sometimes, the mask would remain present in the surgical room as the doctor worked on his patients. This was where he began to observe a few more concerning traits Florice had picked up. The occasional zone-out had spread to his work, causing him to disengage in the middle of treating a patient who’s ribs were exposed to open air.

The mask happened to be lingering around the room one day when the doctor’s eyes had suddenly glazed over. He continued to work his procedure on the patient with no visible issues but his hands slowed to a more mechanical manner as his mind had clearly ascended elsewhere. This sort of dissociation was concerning to the mask, especially when he’d sidled up beside the doctor and made a fruitless attempt to engage him in conversation. 

Florice had barely batted an eye at the mask’s words and his hands continued to move of their own accord. 

He became more withdrawn. If holing himself away in some quiet room to attentively scribble in his journal, wasn’t a norm of the past, it certainly was now.

As the months progressed, he became significantly quieter and more reluctant to speak. Or...no... reluctant wasn’t the right descriptor. He was more… _too disengaged_ to speak as his mind constantly seemed to be elsewhere. Engaging in proper conversations with the doctor had slowly become a rarer occurrence as his attention span shortened to great lengths. 

While the mask pondered over the doctor’s rapidly declining mental state, he was also curious as to what might have brought it on. He presumed witnessing such masses of suffering and anguish was difficult for a mortal to comprehend. And with Florice’s particular situation of being located at screaming heart of it all…?

That must have caused at _least_ some sort of mild stress. Oh yes–all the death, dying and constant pressure of personal responsibility weighing down on Florice’s shoulders was certainly enough to overwhelm him. Witnessing the mass dying of innocent citizens in the streets and being unable to realistically save them _all…_ That was more than enough trauma to drive someone into an anguished state of mind. 

The mask had already prodded him about his state of mind in an attempt to gage whether he’d be able to help–if there was anything he could do for Florice that might’ve alleviated whatever was happening inside his head. 

However, he found little success in doing so as the doctor had feverishly reassured him of his healthy wellbeing, flatly refused to answer any of the mask’s prying questions and instead replied with assurances that there was nothing wrong. He’d never felt better and was actually slightly disgruntled at the mask’s sudden expression of concern.

Well...perhaps things weren’t as bad as the mask perceived them. Florice was still fully functional and he continued to complete the entirety of his work every single day without fail. 

After after all, these subtle changes in mannerism weren’t all too noticeable, at least to an outside eye. 

Despite the mask’s concerns continuing to linger around his thoughts, he ultimately decided to cease prodding the doctor with pestering questions and simply let him be. 

Weeks later, the two arrived in Florence.

This particular Italian city they ambling through had perhaps the worst toll either of them had yet to witness. Ragged lawless children ran through the streets, chasing each other through dark alleyways and stumbling over rotting limbs. Under usual circumstance, a well traveled main road such as this would be bustling with people at the peak hour, crowded and teeming merchants, travelers and citizens moving about their day.

However, at this morning rush hour, the streets were hauntingly barren in a similar manner to a town in Germany that Florice and the mask had visited a considerable few months back. A sparse number of people milled about the desolate streets. Their eyes were hostile, casting wary gazes onto the two foreign entities moving through town. Outsiders weren’t exactly welcome since they carried the possible threat of bringing in more strains of the disease. Of course that wasn’t the case of Florice and the mask. 

Florice's hood was tightly yanked over his hair and his expression was unreadable–concealed behind his leather bird-mask. The air filtering through the city stood silent and still. The grey sky swathed in clouds cast the city in a colorless washed out hue.

The lack of breeze was for the better. Without it, the stench rising from the bodies lining the outskirts of the streets would have flooded to other parts of town. The wall of corpses messily strewn across the flagstones displayed gorey signs of advanced decay. Some of the bodies had been haphazardly shoved into rotting piles stacked near street corners. The faint buzzing of flies emanating from the insects’ feast posed as an entire orchestra humming in the background. 

The horrific sight and experience was nothing to the mask. Florice on the other hand showed visible signs of discomfort at a level which the mask had never witnessed before. As they passed the first stack of haphazardly stacked decomposing corpses, the steps of Florice’s boots hastily increased, practically flying across the cobblestones in a flurry cold silence. The mask struggled to match his pace. 

“God–what’s the hurry?” He protested, momentarily breaking into a jog. At the mask’s words Florice abruptly faltered, slowing down as he realized he was greatly outpacing his partner. 

“I simply want to meet with the grasso as soon as possible to figure out the deal and set up the clinic as quickly as possible,” he muttered hastily, voice muffled by the mask strapped to his face. 

“You? In a hurry?” The mask snorted. The doctor was always patient and never one for haste. Florice seemed to stiffen. 

“Yes well,” the doctor’s voice grew icy as he grit his teeth. “I’d rather be saving people than staring at all of those who it is too late for.” 

The mask knew nothing of the doctor’s expression concealed under the mask but he could sense Florice’s agitation by the way his gloved fingers drummed against the leather strap of his bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Yeah that’s a fair point,” the mask admitted, scratching his porcelain cheek with the tip of his finger. The two lapsed into silence, continuing on for a ways without words as they traversed the winding streets through this massive city. 

The mask’s patience was astonishingly short and his ability to remain quiet even shorter. In all honesty, he _needed_ to speak. Especially after being off-put by the doctor’s unusually edged manner and tensed shoulders beside him. Glancing over at his companion, he studied Florice’s thick mask. 

“Hey, doc. You know, we’ll be off the streets in no time and then you can begin working,” he ventured. Florice offered no response, so he continued. 

“And then you’ll be able to save all the people here who are still alive and need help. You needn’t worry about everyone already gone. Just think of all the people you’ll be able to save, my dear,” he spoke lightly, laying a light hand on Florice’s shoulder. At the mask’s touch, the doctor’s tensed stature seemed to melt. The mask wasn’t entirely sure where the sudden reassuring words had sprung from. Most likely natural worry over his lover’s well-being.

The doctor sighed, reaching up and readjusting his mask.

“Well I’m glad you’ve chosen to be the optimist today,” his voice came muffled and brief. 

They continued walking, turning up a narrow brick street. The mask’s fingers slipped off Florice’s shoulder. He offered a blackened palm toward the doctor with an affectionate demand. 

“Hold my hand.”

There was a pause. 

“No.”

The mask had expected such short reaction. Florice was most certainly _not_ for any sort of public displays of affection. Nevertheless, the mask let out a dramatic groan at his words. 

“C’mon….pleaaaase?” He whined indignantly. Black ooze seeped from beneath the fingernails of his outstretched palm, droplets splashing onto the cobblestones passing by under his steps. Florice’s mask tilted for a moment as he momentarily studied the mask’s hand. 

“No.”

“I'm dying here!” 

At the mask’s dramatic outburst Florice glanced over, exasperated. With one gloved hand, he firmly patted the mask’s outstretched palm before his fingers promptly withdrew to rest on the strap of his bag. 

Yeah...that was probably the most the mask would be able to get out of Florice. Sighing defeatedly, he folded both his hands behind his head and idly gazed at the grey sky, black rivulets streaming down his cheeks. An odd prickle of unease had been creeping around the edges of his thoughts ever since they’d arrived. 

Between Florice’s uneasiness and the city’s grim landscape, the mask felt unusually sober. 

This city was nothing but death. Certainly nothing good would come of it. 

––––––––––––

At the peak of noon both the doctor and mask swept down the steps of a large building that stuck out larger and more distinct along the winding street. Florice’s mood had lightened significantly since their arrival and he was less somber, striking up light chatter with his companion. He even permitted the mask to hang off his shoulder while the two turned away from the building and headed down yet another cobblestone street. 

The pair had wrapped up a visit with a significant populo grasso belonging to the Arti dei Medici e Speziali–the medicinal guild of Florence, Italy. This man was a powerful representative of his guild as well as held significant wealth. Since Florice was seeking medicinal practice within the city, he had to seek out the populo grasso for a place to set up shop as well as funding since he offered his practice without fee. 

Luckily for Florice, this was a leisurely easy task since the mask stood beside him and gladly offered up his skills of persuasion which led to the pair gaining _exactly_ what they needed from the unsuspecting grasso. 

For the remainder of the day, the mask lingered about the doctor, never straying too far from his side while he meticulously worked to set up shop in the city. The temporary space they’d been granted for the clinic was larger than either of them had ever worked before. 

The building itself was located on the street where most of the Medici e Speziali’s businesses resided, so the two fit in seamlessly with the neighbors. However, the stark difference between Florice’s practice and the neighboring shops was that he worked for free. Due to this fact, the doctor briefly mentioned to the mask that he expected a sudden influx of patients over the next week while he was in town. As what usually occurred wherever and whenever he set up a clinic. 

The mask offered a sparse helping hand when needed. The building they had acquired was generously spacious with several large rooms on the lower floor and one single dusty bedroom disguised as attic space up a rickety staircase.

In the frontmost room on the lower floor was where Florice set up his surgical space. The room furthest from the front door, located in the back was currently being used as storage. This was made apparent as the doctor had unlocked the door, the mask peering around his shoulders only to get a faceful of dust bunnies. The room was filled with a jumbled mess of dozens of old cots, several tables, chairs and trays. 

It appeared whoever resided in this building previously hadn’t taken any of their supplies away with them when they left. 

A convenient surprise. 

Then Florice set to work. And after a bit of chiding so did the mask. An hour passed before they’d successfully pulled out all of the necessary supplies from the dusty storage room and taken complete inventory.

Now, as the mask leaned against the doorframe, he crossed his arms and quietly observed Florice move about the frontmost room of the clinic.

The doctor had dragged at least a dozen (looked like more than a dozen, actually–but the mask didn’t care enough to count) low-lying cots into the room. He neatly positioned them along the massive set of windows spanning the far wall. The windows faced the street and allowed the bright daylight to illuminate the room in a healthy glow of natural light. 

A desk already sat in the opposite corner from the wall of windows, a plain cabinet full of fresh sheets resting beside it. 

With the mask’s assistance, the doctor had been able to drag the heavy surgical table discovered in the storage room from the back into the front. The smooth, grey table in question lay in the center of the room, natural light from the windows spilling over it’s pristine surface. Beside it rested a stool and a bedside stand. Atop the stand lay a silver tray displaying a familiar set of tools and syringes. 

By the time Florice had finished moving everything into position, there was little light left streaming through the windows of the main room. The wooden hallway was cast into deep shadow. 

While the hours of the evening crept on, the mask was milling around the back room. Out of both curiosity and boredom he went back to shifting through the old assortment of tools and furniture shoved in the storage space. Everything was covered in a layer of dust. He hadn’t found much other than the odd spoon or too. 

A creaky floorboard suddenly sounded behind him and he glanced over his shoulder to spy the doctor illuminated in the doorway, carrying a silver candle holder with a dimly flickering wick. His hood was around his neck while the tangled mess of his hair flowed freely about his shoulders. The flame cast his features in a shadowed glow.

“I’m headed to bed early this evening. There’s lots of work to be done tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning,” he informed the mask shortly. The mask cheerfully raised a hand.

“‘Night, love!”

A smile crossed Florice’s glowing expression before he turned away and promptly disappeared from the doorway. The mask strained to pick up his light footsteps climbing the stairway to the attic room. A flicker of contentment crossed his thoughts. 

Shifting his attention back into the storage room, the mask resumed rifling through the dusty contents for a short while longer. 

Soon, the shadows in the room grew too great and it became impossible for the mask to continue milling about in the pitch black. Shoving a rickety chair aside as he stepped towards the door, he decided he’d go into town to find the nearest tavern for the night. But first, the mask would check on the doctor and let him know where he was headed for the evening. 

Spinning around, the mask ducked out of the back room and into the hallway. He glanced to his right, spying the staircase a little further down the dark hall. 

The mask winced as the stairs squeaked underfoot. Being silent proved impossible in this old building. Stepping onto the top landing of the staircase, he laid an oozing palm on the door, the hinges creaking in the darkness as he quietly pushed it open. Then he peered into the spacious bedroom. 

An armchair and low table sat off to the left. Resting on the table was Florice’s black bag, accompanied by the silver candle holster he’d carried earlier. The light was nearly extinguished, the dim flame flickering near wax. Through the low candlelight faintly illuminating the room’s details, the mask could barely make out the bed pushed into the center of the far wall and the window positioned above it. 

Quietly slipping in the room, the mask left the door slightly ajar behind him as he crossed the dusty carpet draped over the floorboards. He approached the bedside, pausing as he cast a faint shadow across the worn green sheets. A barely discernible mess of black hair was splayed across the nearest pillow, facing away from the mask. 

“Hey–are you asleep?” The mask hissed quietly, looming over the doctor’s still form. A few black droplets soaked into the sheets. There came no response. 

“Already asleep huh? Oh well...see you in the morning then, dear,” the mask addressed Florice’s unconscious form. Gingerly reaching out, he affectionately brushed the doctor’s pale cheek. After a passing moment he withdrew and straightened up. 

Not wanting to disturb his sleeping partner, the mask decided that leaving a simple notice in the doctor’s journal would have to suffice. 

He wheeled around and padded across the room toward the low-lying table cluttered with the doctor’s contents. Through the fading candlelight, he squinted at the journal paper. Using the white feather quill and a dab of the black ink oozing from beneath his fingernails, he scribbled a brief note in the topmost corner of the open page. 

Satisfied, the mask dropped the quill onto the tabletop and extinguished the candle with his fingertips. Then he straightened up, heading for the staircase. He stepped over the threshold and brought the creaking door to a close behind him before quietly beginning to descend the stairs. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My man florice straight up not havin a good time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot how much of a BITCH 6k word chapters are to revise

Florice frowned, peering intently at his features in the round mirror hanging on near the bedroom door. Behind him, natural light poured in from the large square window above the bed, a morning glow illuminating the room in a pleasant manner. 

His fingers lightly traced the newest scar he’d picked up recently. It was a neatly sliced horizontal line cutting through his left cheekbone and a damn shame that it hadn’t healed properly. Sighing, his hand dropped to his side as he eyed the other pinkish scars riddling his face. Sometimes he wished he weren’t so terrible at dealing with situations involving sharp, pointy blades. 

Turning away from his reflection, he strode toward the low-lying table across the room. He had woken not too long ago and had already dressed himself in most of his work clothes. Plucking his hood from the table, he quickly tugged the garment over his head. As he adjusted the hood draped around his shoulders, he paused, leaning over the table to peer at the mask’s message scribbled in the corner of his journal. After scanning the note, he reached down and flipped the journal shut, promptly tucking the book in his bag. He hadn’t seen his partner yet that morning but judging by the note jotted in his journal, the mask would be returning to the clinic from his night out at the tavern anytime now. 

Lifting his black bag from the table, Florice whirled around, boots silent against the carpeted floor as he headed for the bedroom door. He expected his work to be rather trivial today. This city was full of suffering, the very streets riddled with the disease. The illness had already spread far and wide through this place, would he be able to save them all? 

There was this odd crushing cloud of oppression that had been dampening his thoughts lately and outright meddling with his ability to continue persevering each day through the thick of the disease. God, was it even possible for him to save the number of lives expected of him? 

Dread filled his mind and his expression somberly dropped. He sighed, reaching out to the bedroom door. 

Twisting the knob with a heavy sigh, he inched open the door, ready to trudge down the staircase and–

“Gooood morning!”

“Ah!”

The doctor nearly leaped out of his skin as the sudden shout tore him from his moody thoughts. Heartbeat roaring in his ears, he irritably shoved the door open, smashing it into the wall. Then he tipped forwards, heatedly glaring down the wooden stairwell to behold his partner’s grinning expression at the bottom of the steps. 

“Don’t startle me like that!” Florice called down furiously, bristling as his boot hit the first step. Starting down the stairs, his initial surprise soon dissipated along with his racing heartbeat. 

The mask let out a chuckle, black ooze splashing down his light grey tunic and weathered trousers. He beamed as the doctor descended the creaking staircase and stepped back as Florice landed on the bottom floor. 

“Eheh, sorry ‘bout that,” he grinned sheepishly, scratching his porcelain cheek with a blackened finger. Florice exhaled, pausing before the mask. 

“It’s alright,” he glanced down at the mask with a neutral expression. The mask was still a few considerable inches shorter than him. Then Florice glanced sideways toward the end of the hallway, peering at the front door. His mind had already jumped from the mask to a different matter. 

“I’d better begin work. Did you see many people outside on your way in this morning?” Florice asked abruptly, sudden uneasiness filling his mind as his eyes bored into the door. His hands fidgeted unconsciously. Yes...yes...he’d better get to work. Quickly. Work was important. Work–

A warm touch at his cheek brought him back to reality and he glanced back at the mask who’d reached up to cup the edges of his cheek. Florice blinked slowly. 

“Yes. There’s plenty of people out there, love. You can tend to them in time,” the mask answered sweetly in his warbled tone. The doctor moved to pull away but the mask’s other arm settled around his waist, tugging him closer. 

Florice struggled with his priorities for a moment as he desperately wanted to begin work as soon as possible but–but...perhaps he was moving too fast. He was a patient man after all, he could wait to begin his work a moment longer. His shoulders fell as he exhaled the tight breath he’d been unconsciously holding. He was acutely aware of the mask’s touch resting against his body–one hand pressed into his lower back while the other lightly brushed his face. 

The mask was no stranger and Florice leaned into his embrace wholeheartedly, possessing complete disregard for the messiness of the grotesque black ooze and disintegrating flesh holding him in such a lovely embrace. 

He glanced down into the mask’s porcelain expression, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he lifted his hands to lightly rest at the mask’s neck, relishing in the pleasant warmth the mask’s company brought on.

But even so, his mind was quick to jump to seemingly more important matters. Work. He still needed to go to work. 

Florice stiffened, the smile fading from his lips. He needed to move. 

“I should be working now. I’d better start–” Florice’s hands slipped off the mask’s neck as he prepared to move but the mask had other ideas. 

“Hey, wait. You’re telling me  _ I’m  _ the one who has to tell  _ you _ to slow down?” He offered incredulously, pale expression falling to the side and dislodging a splatter of black. “Stay? Just a moment longer?”

Florice eyed the mask’s unchangeable expression for a moment before admitting defeat. He relaxed, his hands returning to rest at the mask’s neck. 

“Good. C’mere, pretty,” the mask grinned, leaning forwards and bouncing onto the tips of his toes. Florice dipped his head as the mask’s cold lips bumped his cheek.

The kiss was sweet and affectionate. Well...technically the gesture hadn’t been a kiss since the mask was...a mask. Still, Florice couldn’t help but smile despite the coldness of the black smear now stained across his pale cheek. The mask drew back and Florice raised his head, feeling the warmth blossom from his core as he stood swaying in the empty hallway. He softly gazed down at the mask in his arms. The thoughts clouding his mind were no longer of worry and work but rather peace and affection.

“Love you, dear,” the mask hummed, using his thumb to rub away the smudge of ooze he’d left across the doctor’s cheek. 

“Mon cheri amour,” the doctor mused affectionately, his gloved thumb tracing the mask’s porcelain edge. 

Suddenly, the mask perked up. 

“You’re headed to work soon, right?” 

The doctor’s hands faltered as the initial warm brightness filling his mind dimmed into a faint glow. His smile faded. 

“Yes…”

“Well, I’ll be out today, exploring the city while you’re working. Actually, I was thinking of paying that man we saw yesterday another visit…”

“The grasso?”

The mask patted his cheek. 

“Yes, that’s the one. I was thinking of making him raise the price he agreed to for letting stay here,” the mask revealed innocently. Florice dryly cocked an eyebrow. 

“I assume you’ll do this by... _ fairly  _ persuading him without any assistance from your psychological mind tricks?”

The mask beamed. 

“Oh you know me too well, love. Of course I won’t.”

Florice’s eyes flickered upwards in exasperation. 

“I can’t really stop you, can I?” He glanced back down into the mask’s expression. 

“No, I’ll be doing something good for the both of us,” the mask patted the thick layer of robes covering the doctor’s chest. 

“Just...don’t hurt the man or cause a scene. I can’t handle having another warrant out for me or you, for that matter,” Florice cupped the mask’s cheek, heart fluttering as he gave the mask a stern glare. Flattered, the mask leaned into his palm. 

“Oh I won’t. You have my word, dearest.”

With that, the mask withdrew from Florice’s embrace and stepped back. 

“I’ll see you tonight, right?”

“Of course.”

With that, the mask blew him a kiss before he turned and sauntered down the hallway, headed for the front door. As Florice stood alone in the hallway, he swore he could still feel the mask’s lingering touch. After a moment, he shook his head, slowly coming out of his happy daze as his mind kicked into gear. A smile still touched his lips, even as he turned, shouldering the strap of his bag as he stepped down the hallway towards the door the mask had disappeared through. He had work to do. 

–––––––––––

Both the mask’s observation and the doctor’s expectations had been proved true. As Florice had finally gone and opened the doors, he’d found a considerable cluster of ill citizens huddled about the doorstep. 

With a slight twinge of nervousness at the sheer number of sickly-looking people, he’d allowed them entry, watching them file into the building. He directed them to the small waiting room he’d set up and filled with chairs across the hall from his operating room. 

There was a wide span of ages amongst the patients–a few children, as well as women and men all between the ages of twenty and fifty. By estimation, the doctor counted around two dozen people seeking treatment, all dressed in an assortment of garments marking their classes from all over–poor, on the richer end of the middle class, poorer than poor, the middle class…

He stood in the threshold of the waiting room, gaze wracking over the collection of sick people seated in chairs and on the floor. They were lightly chatting amongst themselves.

Uneasiness shot through his chest. Would he really be able to save them all? Here, in this room, Florice could practically smell the pestilence radiating in the atmosphere as he hastily picked out the patients showing the worst symptoms. 

Most had the usual common symptoms–chills, swollen lymph nodes, rattling breath. The three children in the room were coughing uncontrollably. The doctor picked out several persons with gangrene patches splotching their hands and some bare, ragged feet. There was one man with his sleeve pressed over his nose as blood uncontrollably spilled from his facial orifices, staining his rugged tunic.

Deciding to treat the bleeding man first, Florice ushered him from the waiting room and into the surgical room across the hall before swinging the door to a close behind them. The man exhibited extreme nervousness and his eyes uneasily darted around the empty room filled with cots, eyeing the surgical table in the center. Although he found difficulty voicing his anxiety as blood spilled from between his lips. 

When the doctor had finally persuaded the patient to remove his overcoat and stained tunic, he then managed to convince him to lay face-up on the cold surgical table surface. With blood leaking from the man’s nostril, his face shifted to observe the doctor arranging his tools. 

“Those...you’re not going–to use–those on me?” He managed out through the blood spilling from his mouth. A puddle of crimson had begun to pool on the table, sticking and clumping between strands of his graying beard. 

“I wouldn’t be a doctor without them,” Florice replied calmly, his gaze moving to address the man on the table. “You won’t feel anything. I guarantee it.”

The man remained skeptical. He opened his mouth to make another nervous remark but Florice quickly spoke over him, having dealt with many uneasy patients before. 

“Do you want to be cured? I’m afraid you don’t have much time left unless I can treat you,” Florice’s stony gaze softened as he tugged at the fingertips of the glove coating his left hand. 

“Just relax. Close your eyes. Think about all the wonderful things you’ll be able to do once you’re free of this pestilence,” Florice muttered, almost unconsciously at this point. This was the same drill he repeated for the majority of his nervous patients. 

The man’s eyes fluttered shut and his lungs rattled loudly as he sucked in a deep breath. 

The doctor slid the left glove off his hand, exposing the skin beneath for the first time in weeks. His fingers were ghostly pale and a faint bluish color while his nails were a jagged black. The veins running through the tips of his fingers were dark and inky, feigning an appearance of cracked porcelain which made the doctor’s hands appear as though they were on the verge of disintegration. 

Florice stepped up to the table side, standing over the sick, sick man lying before him. This patient would be free soon. Free from the disease. Free from the claws of mortality clutching at his mortal body. 

Excitement flowed through the doctor as he raised his left hand. Yes, he was going to help this man. This was his work. His patient would be free soon enough. The doctor was going to cure him, just as he was going to cure every resident in this ill-ridden city. 

He gently laid the tips of his cracked fingers on the man’s clammy forehead. At his touch, a breath rushed from the man’s body as he let out one last shuddering exhale before he deflated, his palms falling loose and open on the cold table.

Satisfied, Florice removed his fingers and stepped back, quickly pulling the glove over his hand once more. He was ready to begin the procedure. His book containing the procedure’s details was stored somewhere in his bag upstairs but he had no use for his notes at the moment. Enacting the procedure had become second nature and the doctor moved almost automatically. 

He planted himself on the high stool and leaned sideways to pick up one of the glass syringes positioned on the tray. Raising the concoction up to the light, he briefly admired the sloshing blood-red substance inside. 

_ Good _ . He still had a syringe worth’s left of the mixture before he’d need to mix up another batch. After returning the syringe to the tray, he picked up one of his larger scalpels and held the silver instrument between his fingers with a delicate grip. His attention snapped down to the lifeless man on the table.

Leaning over, he laid the edge of the blade at the tip of the man’s collarbone before carefully digging the instrument into the man's flesh and dragging the razor tool downwards, leaving a blood-red trail of freshly cut skin behind the scalpel’s path. He lifted the blade below the man’s sternum.

First step was completed. Florice straightened up, placing the scalpel back onto the tray and plucking up a retractor. He turned back to the body, momentarily studying the angry red line now cutting through the man’s chest. Then he leaned forwards, meticulously positioning the retractor into the flap of cut skin at the center of the man’s rib cage and tugging the flesh back to reveal the yellowing bones of the man’s ribs beneath.

Florice then situated the retractacotr so the tool would remain stable, holding the man open as he reached for the syringe on the silver tray beside him. He held the glass needle in his left hand as he leaned over the body, intently studying the man’s open chest. With his free, gloved hand he reached in and gingerly nudged aside a strip of fatty tissue clinging to the ribs. Beneath it, he spied the man’s heart, nestled cold and lifeless beneath the sternum. 

With a stable left hand, he carefully inserted the needle between the man’s ribs, finding the left atria of the heart and piercing the tissue. With steady hands, he then pushed down the stopper, watching the blood-like liquid drain from within the glass. Once the fluid had been completely emptied into the man’s heart he removed the syringe, placing the empty tool onto the silver platter with an audible clatter. 

The doctor withdrew his hands, ignoring the slippery crimson fluid coating his fingers and removed the retractor, letting the man’s skin fall to a close. He placed the retractor onto the tray and re-focused on the next task at hand. 

He was almost finished, just a few more steps to complete. 

Stitches were an easy task. Florice held the thin needle between his gloved fingers. The instrument had already been threaded. He then tipped forwards, threading the needle through one flap of skin at the incision’s base in the corpses chest. He made quick work of his job, carefully nudging the needle through the opposite flap of the skin and tugging the flesh to a close. Then he looped the needle into the thread onto itself and tied off the stitch. He steadily repeated this simple action and worked the whole way up the man’s chest until the incision had been pulled to a close, leaving nothing but a thin red line dotted with stitches. 

He set the bloody needle aside as he eyed the limp body on the cold operating table, now sewn up and ready to be revived. 

Removing his bloodstained gloves, Florice set them aside and pushed up his sleeves, revealing even more of his pale complexion up his arms. He slowly rose from his stool and loomed over the lifeless man. With his left hand he laid a cracked palm on the man’s chest, careful not to disturb the fresh stitches. Feeling the sudden jolt of a heartbeat beneath the skin, he then reached over with his other hand to lay a few firm fingers on the man’s cold forehead. 

Withdrawing, Florice’s palms hovered over the man as he peered intently at the comatose patient before him. Nervousness flooded through the doctor’s body. In the past, he’d never once failed to revive a patient from death. But that worry was always lurking in his subconscious, nagging at the back of his mind. Frankly, it was a terrifying thought, one that made the doctor’s blood run cold.

_ What if I can’t bring them back anymore? What happens if my touch fails? _

Uneasiness pricked the back of Florice’s mind and his eyes furiously bored into the unconscious man before him. The suspension was slowly killing him as he waited with baited breath for a second telltale sign of life from his unconscious patient. 

His throughs suddenly began to race in a feverish whirl as seconds ticked by and his eyes glazed over, worry gripping his chest. 

_ What if it doesn’t work? What if I fail? No–it’s never failed, why do I think like this? I won’t fail _

An audible gasp sounded from beneath him and his gaze snapped downwards to behold the man shuddering, momentarily struggling to regain breath as his respiration abilities returned. His eyes remained sealed shut, although his eyelids fluttered madly despite his unconscious state.

Florice breathed a sigh of relief, tension dissipating from his shoulders as he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and picked up his thick gloves from the silver tray, tugging them over his fingers. He paused for a moment, remaining at the tableside until he observed the man’s breath to have calmed to a healthy, steady rhythm. Then he stepped around the operating table to stand on the other side. 

He placed one gloved hand under the man’s neck and one under his knees before lifting his limp form from the table with little difficulty. Florice quickly carried his unconscious patient over to the row of cots aligned against the far wall and laid him to rest on the very first one. The patient’s head limply lolled to the side as the doctor stepped back, brushing off his hands. 

That man was due to wake in a few hours. Just another product of the day’s work.

Florice's breath came rushing out of him as he exhaled a nervous sigh. His thoughts were racing in a frenzied clamor as he remembered the remaining mass of ill patients waiting across the hall. There was a lot of work to do, a lot of people to save from the disease on this day. 

The doctor tried to shove away his more disparaging thoughts as he whirled around and stepped over to the operating table, picking up the rag sitting beside the silver tray balanced on the smaller table. As he worked to scrub away the dried puddle of blood pooled on the table from his first patient, he furiously attempted to shove down the whirl of negativity clouding his thoughts. 

He reasoned with himself that there was a simple answer to his struggles of life. Look, if he wanted to save everyone, he’d simply have to continue working in the methodical way he always did–there was no other possible way to go about it. He finished cleaning the operating table and returned the (now pinkish stained) rag to its place beside the tray on the smaller table. 

Florice then whirled around and stalked towards the door, rubbing flakes of dried blood off his gloved fingertips. He had work to do. 

––––––––––

Seven patients. The doctor successfully worked through seven patients before his supply of the dark-red serum ran dry. He was perched on the stool beside the operating table which was now smothered from corner to corner in all sorts of bodily substances he hadn’t been able to scrub away with a dry rag. 

He glanced to his right, eyes falling over the row of unconscious citizens lying rather peacefully in their cots lined against the wall. All of them breathed quite steadily, very much alive but simply still asleep. Sunlight streamed in from the wall of windows, casting them in a faint yellow glow. 

Florice sighed, tearing his eyes away from the sight and glanced down at the empty glass jar in his hand. A single bead of red liquid rolled about the bottom. Frowning, he placed the jar next to his black bag which had been propped open and was resting on the small table situated beside him. 

The doctor rose from his stool. There were still patients outside in the waiting room who needed treatment. He'd have to mix a fresh batch of serum for the remainder of his work that afternoon. 

From his bag he drew several items–a small mixing bowl, an empty syringe and a jar filled to the brim with an assortment of crushed herbs. He carefully lined the ingredients up on the bloodstained operating table. 

Mixing the concoction was not only simple but also necessary for his medicinal practices. His hands could do the work of laying the patients to rest and then reviving them from death but he could not rid them of their ailments without the help of some real sciences. 

Both the cleansing serum he used on his patients and his powerful touch were the result of long study and several questionable experiments during his stay in Alagadda. 

The serum was primarily composed of an even mixture of common herbs and plants. There was only one herbal ingredient not natively found here in this dimension. It was a specific flower that was exclusively found in the windowsills, pots and kitchen gardens in the city of Alagadda. The healing properties of this flower’s petals activated when crushed and mixed with Alagaddan blood. The petal/blood mixture becomes a cleanser of sorts, that restores a person to full health when injected into the bloodstream.

However, in order for the mixture to work, the patient must be dead. After all, this mixture was meant to restore someone from Alagadda to full health and citizens of Alagadda were classified as  _ undead _ shells of their former selves. 

Since the combination of ingredients was purely foreign to any organisms in this dimension, it had to be mixed with familiar Earthly herbs so the human body would not reject the cure. 

Once injected into the heart, the patient would be revived by the doctor’s touch and the heart would evenly distribute the cure throughout the body’s bloodstream and any virus or infection would be completely eradicated. 

Although, the cure was only effective once. It would clear the current ailment but it was not a preventative for future sickness. 

And Florice had all the ingredients needed for this Alagaddan serum, right here in this room. He unscrewed the jar of common herbs and measured out a pinch before placing the dry leaves in the mixing bowl. Then he reached for his bag, opening the cloth to reveal the blackened depths of the never ending interior. Florice peered intently into the bag as he reached in, straining to make out the blood-red leaves of that particular Alagaddan flower. 

He pushed aside several folds of cloth within the bag before finally spying a yellow vine clinging to the dark fabric of the bag’s wall. His fingers followed the vine for a moment before his hand paused at a flowery lump. He gingerly plucked several crimson petals from the flower and removed his hands from the depths, holding up his prize to the light. 

Then, he delicately placed the four petals into the mixing bowl, the bright crimson hue of the foreign flowers contrasting with the dull, earthen herbs. 

He brushed his hands off in satisfaction as he gazed down into the hollow bowl. All of the required plant ingredients had been collected. Now the only task left to fulfill was to add the final ingredient necessary to complete the serum. 

Blood.

Not just any blood. No, the fluid had to be taken from someone with Alagaddan blood in order for the serum’s healing abilities to activate. 

For the first couple years Florice had been back on earth, he’d been using his own blood for the concoction. He’d quickly discovered that the combination of questionable experiments he’d performed and his prolonged period of exposure to the fantastical city had left a permanent mark in his physiology. The change in his body from Alagadda had made his blood viable for use in his cure which was rather convenient. 

Once he and the mask had grown more comfortable with each other, Florice had inquired about the substance the mask constantly secreted. 

After a few experiments, results proved that although Florice’s blood sufficed, the mask’s secretions posed an even better quality ingredient for the cure. After all, the pure blood of a Lord was certainly much more substantial than an outside visitor. 

Unfortunately, at the moment the mask was nowhere to be found so the doctor had to make due with his own blood. 

He hastily rolled back his right sleeve, exposing the pale flesh of his forearm. Then he plucked up the clean, empty syringe resting on the table and grasped the instrument in his left hand. There was a light pinch of pain when he pricked the skin of his wrist. Next, he began to slowly pull up on the stopper, drawing in a considerable amount of crimson liquid directly from his veins. His arm tingled as he focused on the task at hand, squinting at the sloshing blood slowly but surely filling the vial. 

Suddenly, there was a terrible clatter from the hall outside the doctor’s room. Florice’s head jerked up and he glanced over his shoulder towards the door. He heard a woman’s muffled cry–

_ “My brother! He’s dying! Please–where is the doctor! Does anyone here–” _

Florice’s hands trembled. 

There was a chorus of incoherent voices in response to the cry, presumably other patients attempting to calm the woman. A sudden rush of blind panic settled over the doctor.

People...the sick people all...all the sick people. They needed him...they were dying–there were so many dying...so many sick–sick and dying...he had to do something–no he  _ was  _ doing something–yet...was his doing enough…?–it wasn’t–no–he couldn’t...it wasn’t enough–he wouldn’t be able to save everyone–there was just so many–

The abrupt jumble of overwhelming thoughts soon faded into disquieting hum as his mind glazed over, conscious now somewhere far, far away.  His hands moved with latent accord as his mind snapped into automatic gear, carrying out the rest of his task with little supervision from any higher thought process. 

Hastily, he slid the needle out from under his skin, uncaring about the choppily measure quantity of blood inside the vial. The tip of the syringe hovered over the mixing bowl as Florice’s thumb pressed down on the stopper, emptying the contents of the glass. 

A sickly pool of abnormally dark blood thickly swirled around the bowl, bits and pieces of plant and herbal matter sticking together in the viscous liquid. 

After stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon from his bag until the flower petals had dissolved into the blood, the doctor procured a second syringe–the alarmingly thick one used on his patients earlier that morning. He quickly dipped the needle tip into the bowl and drew up enough of the crimson serum for a single dose. Then, he placed the needle onto his silver tray of tools and cleared the small table, leaving the bowl of mixture resting on its surface and repositioning his silver tray of tools beside it. 

Then, he hastily rose from his stool, brushing off his robes and moving towards the surgical room’s door. There was still a crowd of diseased people waiting for the doctor outside his room. 

–––––––––––

Night soon fell. Florice’s boots stomped across the floorboards as he unconsciously raked his hands through his hair in a feverish manner, thoughts racing much too fast to control. The doctor had been thrown into a frenzied panic and he was erratically pacing about the dim surgical room now illuminated by a single lantern resting atop the empty operating table. 

Every few seconds his head jerked up to glance over at the row of cots lined along the far wall, barely illuminated by the single flickering flame resting in the center of the room. 

See, everything had gone perfectly fine for the entirety of the afternoon. Florice had tirelessly worked his way through every single patient waiting for him outside the room. Children, men, women...everyone. 

Everything was perfect. He’d performed his procedure and...and everyone had been cured. Yes–he...he was so certain he’d saved everyone–

He felt an icy sensation gripping at his chest, slowly obstructing his ability to breath. He felt clammy...so clammy...all over…

The patients had been laid to rest on the cots just as usual. Yes...no step in his procedure had gone astray–he’d performed everything correctly so why–?

The patients had laid on the cots, their respiratory systems visibly functional as they remained unconscious. The doctor had been waiting for them to rouse from their sleep all afternoon. Most patients had already woken in fully restored health and the doctor had been quick to materialize at their side in order to assist them with their clothes and help them make their way out of the clinic. A countless number of formerly dying citizens were able to return home to their families healthy and well again… 

But there was a subset few who weren’t. 

Four…the doctor had counted four patients who hadn’t risen from their comas. Eventually, in the late afternoon, he’d arranged their cots together in a group and perched on his stool, vigilantly watching over them as he patiently awaited their rousal. 

Hours had ticked by and the natural light streaming in through the windows faded with the setting sun. Florice had lit the lantern and remained in the operating room, silently observing the few unconscious patients left. 

The icy grip of fear began creeping over him around two hours after sundown. 

See, this anomaly had never occurred before. Not in any years of the doctor’s career had something of this drastic nature ever happened. 

Florice wheeled around as he reached the opposite wall of the room and stalked back across the floor as he continued to feverishly pace. 

The patients had remained unconscious far longer than they were supposed to. And yes, the doctor sometimes had a rare occurrence where a patient would wake much later than expected but this time the scenario was different. Especially since it was four people in question, not one. 

_ I should check on them, one more time, just to–carefully look them all over... just to be sure. _

Later into the evening, the patients still hadn’t woken. No, in fact, they’d done the complete opposite. They’d  _ died.  _ Within the hour after sundown, one by one the unconscious citizens drew their last shuddering breaths and fell hauntingly still. 

Of course the doctor made many attempts to revive them by hand once more but he found that he...just...couldn’t. His touch had no effect on their lukewarm corpses.

How? Why couldn’t he? That was a simple question with no answer. Florice had then turned to frantically leafing through his journal, searching for any sort of insight or explanation from past studies that might give him a clue to what had lead to this. 

He found nothing. 

Over the course of the past few hours, a slow tide of panic, fear and worry had gradually crashed over his head. Minutes ticked by. He could no longer bear to sit still, doing nothing but idly fidget with his hands in his lap. He had shot to his feet and began furiously pacing back and forth across the room. 

Occasionally he’d pause, lightly trembling as he moved to kneel at the patients’ sides and lay a hand somewhere on their body in yet another futile attempt to bring them back from the clutches of death. He’d repeated this action countless times, losing track of the numbers and growing more desperate with every attempt. 

Florice's head jerked over to glance at the four patients yet again. Cold sweat dripped down his forehead and he shifted uncomfortably in his thick robes, forcing himself to draw a shaky breath. It was gnawing at him again. The urge to move over and check on the patients yet again and attempt to revive them with the simple touch of his hand. 

Yes! Yes maybe...maybe this time...maybe this time they would...come back–they–they’d come back this time...

Florice whirled around and stalked towards the lantern resting on the bloodstained operating table. He snatched up the light source with one pale hand. With a twinge of apprehension, he spun around and stomped over to examine the patients once more.  He moved between the dead bodies, placing his sickly fingers on each one for another countless, useless attempt. As he moved down the line, the icy fear gripping his chest tightened as the bodies remained wholly dead. By the time he’d lifted his touch from the last body in the line, he could barely breathe. 

He sucked in a shaky breath between gritted teeth and rose to his feet as his legs wobbled and hands trembled uncontrollably. His mind was nothing but an incoherent whirlwind of racing thoughts. A sudden wave of panic crashed over his head and he pressed his palms to his temples, eyes watering–

Dead. They’re dead. Killed–Dead–

–his entire body felt as though he’d been plunged into an icy bath. A hot flash engulfed his body and his heartbeat roared in his ears. 

He stumbled, palms digging into his temples as he blinked away the tears pricking the corners of his eyes. His vision wobbled and a sudden dizziness crashed over his head bringing a splitting flash of pain through his skull. 

Hands–his hands–they didn’t–

He trembled madly, raising his hands to his face and squinting. The image of his pale, porcelain fingers swam dangerously in his vision. Struggling to breathe he forced in another rattling breath. 

–work. Wh–what was wrong with...with his hands? Him–what was wrong with–no...no he...the people...the people...dead–they were dead. They came–seeking–they’d come seeking aid from  _ him, _ he was–he was supposed to take...take care of...no–cure...he was supposed to  _ cure them.  _ They placed th–their trust in him and he–they were merely sick–more than–nothing more than that and yet–he’d...he’d killed–

Florice’s vision was sliding in and out of focus. His feet swayed beneath him, head swimming as clammy sweat dripped down his face. Unbalanced, he staggered forwards, collecting his gloves from the operating table. Shakily, he barely managed to pull them over the sight of his horrid fingers. With unsteady feet he raised his head to set eyes on the door across the room. 

He had–he had to get–away. Away–away...anywhere–away from here–away from–

A darkness began to well up behind his vision which sparked a shot of icy adrenaline into his veins. Terror.

Oh no...oh–no no no–no he didn’t want to faint–not here it wasn’t–not safe it wasn't–safe he needed to get off his–his feet–

He staggered across the operating room, his gloved hand fumbling around the silver doorknob. Shoving open the door, he lurched into the hallway, wobbling. Reaching out a hand, he found the corridor wall, leaning against it for balance. 

Head spinning, his palm dragged across the wall as he stumbled down dark the hallway. There was no light here–he could scarcely make out the floorboards under his boots. His mind flew in an incomprehensible whirl and his feet moved unconsciously as he managed to stagger down the length of the hallway. A deafening heartbeat roared in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the wooden floor squeaking underfoot. Thoughts empty, he could barely remember the events that happened next. 

One moment Florice was feverishly swaying at the base of the stairs and the next he was trembling on the bed in the upstairs room. His boots were gone. He sunk into the mattress atop the mess of bedsheets. Knees loosely tucked to his chest he hunched over, clutching at his middle. A mixture of hot nausea and freezing panic smothered his chest. He struggled to breath, forcing a deep inhale in an attempt to calm himself which lead to no avail. 

Clammy sweat dripped down his face as he squeezed his eyes shut, gloved hands shaking. His lungs rattled and uncontrollable tremors wracked his body, leaving an agonizing icy sensation gripping his limbs. His head spun and he felt terribly faint, vision flickering as he sat immobilized in the pitch blackness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruh i thought id be done with this entire series by now but it looks like ill be finished around February. Unless i decide to speed run it during christmas break and have it done by New Years...hmmm decisions


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schools picking up and being a BITCH so no more stable upload schedule. Updates are gonna be uh...whenever i can now, whether it take me 3 days or 3 weeks.

“Florice?”

The mask had heard an uneven stagger of footsteps ascending the stairwell down the hallway. Not a few moments earlier he’d slipped through the front door and kicked the thing close behind him. Then the stomping of boots had snared his attention. That must have been the doctor, retiring to bed for the night. 

Quietly striding down the hall, the mask reached the base of the staircase and paused, peering up into the darkened stairwell. 

At the top landing lay the bedroom door, haphazardly thrown ajar. Darkness spilled from the room. It appeared the doctor hadn’t lit a light source for the evening. 

Odd. 

Slight concern flickered across the mask’s thoughts as he gazed up the stairwell. The doctor was never careless enough to leave the door open, nor was he particularly akin to entering a room without a candle or lantern. 

Unexplainable apprehension prickled at the base of the mask’s decaying neck as his foot fell upon the first step and he began to climb the stairs. As he ascended the creaking staircase and his oozing hand left a smear trailed up the wall for balance, he felt a slight twinge of guilt. 

The mask had been absent for the entirety of the day. In the morning he’d paid the grasso a visit just as intended. That whole ordeal went fantastic, actually and the mask had been treated as though he were an esteemed lord in the grasso’s presence rather than a worn traveler. After all, charismatic charm usually lead to ideal ends. 

During the warm afternoon hours, the mask had simply been meandering about the city on an exploratory wander through the cobble winding streets. He enjoyed taking a jaunt around each town and city he and Florice visited at least once. The collective subtle variations of human life were quite honestly….fascinating. Entertaining too. The mask loved chatting up the locals. Today on his wander he’d found the city of Florence to be quite magnificent, honestly. The infrastructure was quite reminiscent of Alagadda. 

While he’d been preoccupied exploring the Italian city, he’d completely forgotten to make a stop in and check up on Florice working in the clinic. By usual standards, if the mask was absent for the day, he was certain to pay the doctor a visit at least once around midday. But today he’d forgotten since he’d completely lost himself in thought, curiously wandering quite far from the clinic toward the outermost reaches of the city. 

The floorboards squeaked in protest as he stood at the topmost landing of the staircase. He creaked open the door, his hand lingering on the doorframe as he peeked into the dark bedroom. 

“Dearest, are you in here?”

There came no response but a faint rattling of shaky breath from across the room. Oh. Perhaps the doctor was sleeping. The mask stepped over the threshold and blindly stumbled into the pitch black. He confidently strode into the room before his shin collided with the edge of the low-lying table. 

“Ow! Son–of–a–ugh! Where’s the light?” The mask grumbled, reaching down to furiously rub his now-bruised shin. His arm bumped against a cold metal object lying on the table, causing an audible clatter. Interested, the mask’s attention rose from his injured shin and he blindly reached out until his fingers closed around the top handle of the familiar silver lantern. 

After a few seconds of scrambling around in the dark, the mask straightened up, the wick inside the lantern now aflame. 

“Whew! Finally.”

The lamp cast a dim golden light over the room. The mask could make out Florice’s form perched on the bed, knees tucked his chest. 

“Oh, you’re awake. Good! I’ve got some great news for tonight!” The mask moved across the room toward the bed. 

“The grasso graciously decided to change his mind on the pay we agreed to. He says he’d be happy to pay us triple!” The mask stood at the bedside, placing the lantern on the nightstand beside the bed with a faint clinking noise. This corner of the room was now bathed in a soft orange glow. Then the mask turned to face the doctor, beaming as his hands fell to his hips. 

“Pretty good, huh?”

Florice remained stone still, eyes glazed over as he stared off into nowhere. Shadows from the lantern flickered across his expression. At the sound of the mask’s query, he vaguely nodded. The mask’s black eyes bored into the doctor for a moment, feeling a slight stab of annoyance. 

“Are you even listening to me?” He suddenly scoffed, affronted as he glared stubbornly into the doctor’s pale face.

There it was again. The vague robotic nodding. The mask wasn’t sure what Florice’s deal was but the doctor didn’t seem quite...present. 

Slight apprehension flitted across the mask’s thoughts as he stepped back, hands dropping to his sides. Then, for the first time that evening, his gaze dropped and he studied the doctor a little closer. Florice wasn’t quite as frozen solid as the mask initially thought. He was shaking, actually, and his entire body was covered in tremors. His gloved hands clutched at his sides, palms violently shaking as his fingers fidgeted of their own accord. 

“Uh...are you alright there, doc?” The mask started uncertainly. He quickly deflated, all traces of annoyance melting into worry. His gaze shifted back up to the doctor’s shadowed expression. 

Was the doctor’s face paler than usual or was that a trick of the dim lighting?

Florice uttered no sign he’d heard the mask’s question. The mask wasn’t the doctor here but he was quite certain there was something very wrong with his companion shivering and hunched over on the bed. The mask ran through a short list of possible explanations for the doctor’s behavior. The first being–

“Oh...jeez...Did you run out of serum? Ah–I wasn’t around today to supply you with the fluid–did you take too much of your own blood or–?” 

The mask’s words faltered as Florice vaguely shook his head in a confirmation of ‘no.’

Raising his blackened fingers, the mask shifted his weight and scratched his porcelain cheek as he studied the doctor once more. Florice seemed...troubled. Or quite upset. The whites of his eyes tinged with a pinkish hue. 

The mask sighed, hand falling to his side and scattering a splatter of black on the floor. 

“Well...do you wanna talk about it?” His question harbored an expectant edge. 

Florice failed to take the social cue and remained wholly silent, offering no gestures of further communication. With little other choice, the mask lightly stepped up to the bedside. He kicked off his ragged shoes before quietly lowering himself to perch on the edge of the mattress which sunk under his weight. Since Florice continued to offer no reaction, the mask’s oozing palms pressed against the sheets, leaving black handprints as he sidled up to the doctor and gently pressed his shoulder against Florice’s. 

The doctor continued to remain silent and unmoving. The mask leaned forwards, expression falling to the side as he glanced into the doctor’s glazed expression. Now, the mask could physically feel Florice’s body trembling beside him. 

“Hey…” the mask started. For the first time in a long while, he was uncertain. 

“What’s going on?” He continued tentatively. Florice remained dead silent and the mask sighed, wracking his brains for a way to make the doctor talk. Glancing down, he noticed Florice’s gloved hand shaking as his fingers clutched at the dark robes flowing over his legs. 

Gently, the mask’s palm closed around Florice’s trembling hand. The doctor sucked in a rattling breath at the mask’s touch. His hand was practically vibrating in the mask’s grasp. 

“Not feeling very talkative tonight, huh?” The mask mused lightly, the pad of his thumb rubbing slow circles on the back of the doctor’s gloved hand. 

Florice blinked.

His fingers twitched in the mask’s grip. Pressed against the doctor’s side, the mask could physically feel him struggling to slow his breathing, sucking in a choppy inhale and shuddering to keep his exhale from rushing too quickly from his lungs. He was uncharacteristically clammy too. 

“There there,” the mask muttered softly. In all honesty he hadn't the faintest idea of what he was doing. However, that didn’t matter since it was working and slowly easing the doctor away from–whatever he was suffering from. 

A few quiet moments passed with the doctor continuing to shudder beside the mask. 

The mask couldn’t keep silent for long. He sucked in a breath and went to speak but his words faltered when the doctor suddenly shifted beside him. His head fell to the side, lightly resting against the mask’s shoulder. His eyes continued to blankly gaze ahead, glazed over and unfocused. 

Surprised, the mask glanced down at the doctor’s mess of black hair splayed across his shoulder. 

“Uh…” he started. “...yeah...Yeah yeah, come here,” he muttered, squeezing the doctor’s hand. Even as he leaned into the mask, Florice remained rigid as a board, body wracked with trembles. A second of silence passed before the mask reached over with his free hand and ran his oozing fingers through the doctor’s hair. Florice offered no protest.

“You’re uh...going to be fine,” the mask started uncertainly, still clueless to the nature of the doctor’s condition. 

“Yeah, everything’s alright...I’m here now,” he trailed off, voice warbling. He withdrew his hand from Florice’s hair, palm settling on the bedsheets beside him. There wasn’t much else the mask could do except wait beside the doctor. 

Minutes ticked by and Florice’s violent shuddering slowly began to ease. In fact over time, he’d practically melted into the mask’s side, nestling his head in the crook of the mask’s neck. The mask let go of the doctor’s hand and instead wrapped his arm around the doctor’s shoulders. He was barely trembling now and he seemed to have regained control over his ability to steadily breath. 

For what seemed like agonizingly long hours, the two silently remained in a simple comforting embrace. When Florice’s faint trembling finally ceased to stillness, the lantern perched on the bedside was glowing from the bottom of the wick. 

Glancing down, the mask finally addressed the doctor. 

“So...you wanna talk about it?” He muttered rather expectantly, his fingers drumming along the doctor’s shoulder. Against his chest Florice nodded.

“Well then, what happened to you?”

“I got worked up...scared...because of...patient...stress–y’know...work...” Florice mumbled incoherently. He seemed to sink deeper into the mask’s hold, if that were somehow possible. Black ooze fell from the mask’s porcelain orifices as he let out a chuckle. 

“Scared? What could you be possibly scared of? That bounty hunter hasn’t tracked us down again, has he?”

Florice stiffened for a moment before he shifted, drawing his arms tighter against his chest. 

“No no...nothing like that. I simply...I…” at this point he choked on his words and coughed furiously, shuddering against the mask. 

“C’mon, spit it out...it can’t be that bad–”

“I–killed all those people,” Florice croaked out hoarsely. He seemed to grow further upset and drew himself into a tighter ball. 

For a moment, the mask was struck with confusion. 

“I mean yeah you always do that, it’s literally part of your procedure–”

“–no...not the procedure,” Florice interjected quietly. 

“They were….they were supposed to wake up but–but they didn’t, they died. They died because I couldn’t…I couldn’t bring them back…my power...it's gone it–it failed...” Florice managed out shakily, fingers curling into fists. He was trembling again and he tightly squeezed his eyes shut. 

The mask’s expression tilted to lightly perch atop the doctor’s mess of black hair. 

“Are you really sure that's what happened?” He asked skeptically. “Seems unlikely your power would just disappear out of nowhere.”

Florice stiffened for a moment, blinking as he slightly raised his head. 

“Well...I...yes I’m certain that is...what happened,” he began slowly. 

“Maybe you just messed up a part of the procedure. Did you have to make a new batch of serum today?”

Florice reluctantly nodded against the mask’s chest. 

“Yes but...I’m certain...yes certain I mixed it correctly. Besides, the mixture shouldn’t have an effect on the ability of my hands.”

“Perhaps you should check the mixture in the morning. Run some tests just to be sure ‘cause I bet you got distracted and slipped something up.”

“No my procedure–it was...flawless…I’m certain….”

“It’s alright, mistakes are mistakes. I bet if you correct the serum you’ll be able to revive those people tomorrow,” the mask reassured him, wrapping his other arm across Florice’s chest in order to draw him in. The doctor was freezing cold against the mask’s body. 

Florice remained doubtful at the mask’s insistence. The mask sighed, knowing there was no way to to persuade the doctor of anything other than his own theories. Black droplets of ooze soaked into the doctor’s thickly clad shoulder. 

“Don’t worry about it–hey, think of it this way. It's just a couple of dead people and you work with them all the time! How many were you unable to revive, anyways?”

“Four…”

“Four? Oh that’s nothing, dear. You seem to forget I myself have killed what–dozens...no hundreds! of mortals in this universe. After all, these hosts have to come from somewhere!” The mask laughed, lightly shaking against the doctor. 

“Yes…that is...true,” Florice faltered, voice hovering with a slightly perturbed note.

“But your hosts...they...serve a purpose...their deaths aren’t meaningless...I...my patients they died for nothing...nothing…I...killed them for nothing...” Florice mumbled darkly. 

“Oh no, love, don’t fell guilty, they were going to die anyways, remember?”

“But–”

“Shhhh…” the mask raised his head, glancing down at the doctor curled up against him. 

“No more talking. You’re clearly in no state of mind for any sort of rational conversation,” the mask chuckled. Florice mumbled an incoherent protest before he lifted his head from the mask’s chest. He sat up, momentarily leaning away from the mask and avoided his companion’s gaze by glancing across the dark bedroom. Then he ran a stressed hand through his hair before glancing over at the mask settled beside him on the bed. He blinked rapidly, gaze shifting downward.

“Look. I just...I’m…”

“Hey! What did I just say. No talking,” the mask reached over, grasping the edges of the doctor’s chin. He gently tugged him until his golden gaze evenly met the mask’s black, empty eyes. For a moment, Florice gazed at him coolly, chin resting in the mask’s blackened palm. 

“You’re tired. You need rest, dear. I think the only thing you should focus on is sleep, you’re in no state of mind for anything else,” the mask addressed him sternly. Florice’s gaze softened and he sighed, raising his head from the mask’s palm. 

“You’re probably right,” he muttered defeatedly. Satisfied with the doctor’s answer, the mask’s hand fell to his side. Then he promptly flopped backwards, hitting the pillow with a dull thump. Then he folded his hands behind his head. Shifting his gaze, his attention turned to the doctor sliding off the other side of the bed and padding across the room towards the low-lying table. 

From his position lounging most comfortably on the bed, the mask idly observed as he unraveled his hood from around his shoulders and neatly placed the garment onto the table beside his bag. Then he quickly shed his robes, changing into more comfortable attire which consisted of the usual slacks and a loose fitting shirt. All black, of course. 

Then he spun around and stepped across the floor, returning to the bedside. His expression was unreadable in the dim, yellow flickering light. He leaned over and uncapped the lantern top before sticking his fingers in and quickly snuffing out the flame. 

The mask rolled over to make room as Florice slid into the sheets beside him. From the faint bluish light filtering through the window, the mask was able to make out the doctor’s hunched silhouette still upright on the mattress beside him. 

The mask raised his head from the pillow and his gaze flickered down to rest on the doctor’s gloved hands. 

“Gloves?” The mask inquired expectantly. In the faint light, Florice’s expression shifted ever so slightly as he faced the mask. 

“What about them?”

“You should take them off.”

The doctor rubbed his wrist uncertainly. 

“You know they’re there for safety,” he muttered in a low tone. At his words the mask pushed himself upright, twisting around to give the doctor his full attention. 

“You should let your hands rest,” the mask chided. 

“I don’t want to cause any...accidents…” Florice mumbled stubbornly. 

“I know you're paranoid after whatever happened today but hey–it's just me now, you’re fine. You can’t hurt me–look at me! This bad boy–” the mask gestured at his body. “Is already dead and I’m practically a god myself. The mask waved a hand. “And you know that already. So let your hands rest for once. It will probably help you revive those people tomorrow, anyways.”

Florice paused before he begrudgingly registered the mask’s point as a valid one. 

“If you insist,” he grumbled. From the faint moonlight, the mask could barely make out the doctor’s movement of sliding the thick leather from his palms. He leaned sideways and placed the gloves on the nightstand before rolling over onto his back. He gazed upward at the ceiling, pale hands folded and resting on his middle. Satisfied with Florice’s compliance, the mask let his head fall back onto the pillow with a sigh, stretching his decaying arms above his head. 

“Are you going into the tavern again for the night?” Florice’s voice suddenly sounded from beside him. The mask paused, porcelain features falling to the side to face Florice. 

“I was going to but I think I’ll stay with you for the night,” he replied simply, his arms limply flopping back to his sides with a dull thump against the mattress. 

“Sleeping?”

“Yep.”

“You’ve never really explained to me how that works since you’re a...mask and all. Care to?”

“Nah, that’s my secret.” 

“Hm. Fine,” Florice grunted. He began drumming his fingers on his torso in an agitated manner. In the darkness the mask reached over, his palm brushing against Florice’s pale forearm. His skin was clammy and cold. The doctor momentarily stiffened. He’d resumed trembling, presumably due to the previous events that’d occurred that afternoon. 

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Yes. Just...nerves,” Florice replied testily. His voice held an uneasy note. The mask withdrew his touch before shifting across the sheets to sidle up beside the doctor. Florice was welcoming of the gesture and turned onto his side, gently resting his arm across the mask’s middle. He seemed almost hesitant, the black tips of his fingers barely brushing the mask’s dissolving skin.

“Come on! Come here, love, you feel cold,” the mask rolled onto his side, facing the doctor. Then he reached out and tightly wrapped his arms around Florice’s middle. He pushed the tip of his porcelain nose into the fabric of Florice’s chest, creating a considerably sized stain of black ooze in the doctor’s clothes. That was alright though, considering the doctor’s sleep attire was black anyways. 

Florice curled around him, sapping up the warmth the mask emitted. He wrapped his arms around the mask’s shoulders and settled his chin atop the mask’s light hair. Luckily for the doctor, the mask’s current host was on the smaller side, which made Florice’s act of gathering him up in his arms considerably easier. 

The mask happily entangled their legs as he clung to the doctor. 

"‘You warm now?” The mask asked smugly, voice muffled in the doctor’s chest. 

“Yes,” Florice hummed, his eyes already fluttering shut. 

With that, the mask laid in the doctor’s sleeping arms until the rich golden rays of morning sunrise began to creep into the blackness of the dawn sky. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi

Florice’s vision slid into focus, eyes fluttering open. He was greeted by the sight of the plain ceiling of the upstairs bedroom. He stirred, blinking back the sleepiness from his eyes. Although he was quite comfortable, he felt unusually warm sinking into the soft mattress. His first assumption was that he’d somehow tightly wrapped himself in blankets during the night. However, he found that was not the case when he glanced sideways and blearily noted the black-splotched sheets hanging off the edge of the bed. 

As his mind slowly began to kick into gear, he went to raise his left arm in order to rub his eyes only to find he was immobile. A weight was sprawled across his chest, effectively pinning him down. 

Bewildered, Florice raised his head from the pillow, squinting down at his chest to observe the mask happily splayed face-down across the doctor’s body. Ah. That was where the smothering warmth was coming from. His porcelain features were turned sideways and his cheek was pressed against the doctor’s chest, light hair barely brushing Florice’s chin. Both of their legs were still comfortably entangled.  Bright morning light streamed through the window above the bed, casting both of their forms in a golden glow. 

With his left arm pinned between his torso and the mask, Florice glanced to his right and found his other hand entangled with the mask’s, resting on the pillow.  Then Florice finally noticed the mess. Black ooze covered practically every square inch of the mattress. The mask had seemed to have deteriorated rapidly during the night–his host was nearing its final stage until total decimation. The mask’s entire body, including his host's clothes, were utterly soaked in a black corrosive ooze. 

And since the mask was splayed out on top of Florice, practically smothering him, he too was able to experience the unpleasant experience of being covered in a film of black viscous liquid. 

That was going to take ages to shake off. 

With an agonized groan Florice’s head aggressively fell back into his pillow. He gazed dully at the ceiling. The pale fingers of his right hand twitched in the mask’s grasp. 

For a moment, he struggled to recall details involving the previous night. 

However, there was a brief flash of memory–dizziness and stumbling over the surgical room threshold–and then everything came rushing back to him. In an instant, lingering traces of drowsiness were zapped from his mind. He was met with sudden clarity as a singular task rose to the forefront of his thoughts. 

The patients. Those four unconscious patients downstairs on the cots. They  _ needed _ him. He had to find a way to bring them back. It was imperative. They were counting on him and him alone. He  _ would _ find a way to fix them, he  _ would _ unearth his mistake and correct the wrong he’d done. He’d make certain they’d walk out of the clinic alive and well. His pulse quickened. 

“My dear, are you awake?” Florice raised his head once more, gazing down at the mask splayed across his chest. In a flash, the mask’s expression shot up. Startled, Florice gave a jolt of surprise. 

“Yep! G’morning, love,” the mask exclaimed jovially, beaming. The golden light filtering through the window cast the mask’s stark white features in yellow highlights. 

Florice’s gaze softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Good morning to you too,” he mused affectionately. Then his expression hardened and he regarded the mask with a pleasant, although cool expression. 

“Now, I’ve got work I need to do. I’m terribly sorry but you’re going to have to shove off–” 

Florice surged upright, struggling for a moment. His right hand slipped out from the mask’s grasp and with both arms he managed to shove the mask’s deadweight off his body. The mask offered no help and rolled over across the mattress pausing face down before he propped himself upright by the elbows and glanced sideways at the doctor. He’d left a trail of black sludge behind him across the sheets. 

Not that it was noticeable–the entire bed was practically black anyways. 

“That was rude,” the mask chided incredulously.

Florice perched on the edge of the bed, facing away from the mask. He leaned forward and snatched up his gloves from the nightstand. 

“Well that's what you get for decaying all over me,” he called back smugly, pulling the thick leather over his cracked fingers. 

“Excuse you, I can’t help it!” 

Florice let out an amused chuckle, shaking his head before he began to flap out his arms and vigorously wipe off the black goo staining his skin. Then he paused his furious swiping as he recalled the importance of the work he had to fulfill that day. All thoughts of the black mess abruptly forgotten. He scrambled off the bed and shot to his feet. 

“Jeez what’s gotten into you?” The mask commented lightly, rolling over and placing his arms behind his head as he leisurely observed the doctor quickly dart across the room. Florice approached the low table, finding his folded robes resting on the countertop beside his doctor’s bag.

“I’ve got extremely important work to take care of today,” he replied simply, leaning over and snatching up his clothes. 

“Right, the whole–”

“I’ve got to save those people I killed,” Florice finished for him, swallowing back the sudden lump in his throat. A heavy dread settled over his shoulders, pleasantries of the morning all but forgotten as a clammy hand tightened around his heart. 

The people. The ones he killed. The ones that died for nothing. He had to save them. 

Yes, and he would save them, all of them. Sulking around and being upset over his losses certainly wouldn’t help save anyone. With a sigh he forced himself to lighten up, pushing aside the negatives swirling around his mind. 

He was going to bring them back. He had no choice. 

Eager to begin the crucial work, Florice quickly shed his nightshirt, dropping the fabric onto the table. He could feel the mask’s stare burning into his back. Throwing his robes over his head and securing the cord around his waist, he draped his hood over his shoulders. Reaching up with his hands he went to free his trapped hair from under the hood only to recoil, fingers coming back coated in black liquid. 

An exasperated sigh fell from his lips as he flicked the droplets off his gloves. Great. The stuff was even in his hair too. 

He leaned over, vigorously rubbing his hands through his hair, shaking out the ooze and scattering the accursed stuff all across the bedroom floorboards. 

A series of amused snickers drifted across the room and Florice’s gaze shot up to cast a furious glare at the mask who was chuckling from the bed. 

“I don’t want to hear a word from you,” the doctor scowled, a pinkish tinge coloring his cheeks. 

“Oh no I’m not saying anything,” the mask giggled, struggling to keep his composure. Florice frowned. 

“I am never sleeping in the same bed as you ever again,” he declared, smoothing out the tangled mess of his hair. 

“Aw come on, it’s not that bad,” the mask retorted indignantly. 

“Correction. I’m never sleeping in the same bed as you when you’re more than halfway through a host. Christ almighty–this stuff is everywhere–” Florice reached up with a hand and rubbed a black stain off his cheek. 

“How long until you need another host?”

“Oh I don’t know, probably by tonight. I’ll find one when I go out for the day,” the mask held out his arms, studying his decaying elbows with mild interest. 

“Good because I don’t know how much longer I can put up with this god awful mess,” Florice waved a vague hand around the room, gesturing at the pools of black splotches dotting the floor.

“Such a drama queen,” the mask sighed, shaking his head as he flicked ooze off his own fingers. 

Florice turned back to the low lying table and picked up his bag before whirling around and striding over the dust-covered desk shoved in the bedroom corner. With his foot he pulled out the three-legged stool from the desk’s underside before promptly planting himself onto the seat and placing his black bag on the surface of the desk. 

From the bag’s depths he removed several objects including his heavy leather journal, a sample of the serum from the previous day, a quill and his vial of ink. He meticulously lined up each item on the desk. There was a rustling of sheets behind him as the mask slid off the bed. His footsteps padded across the floor and he ambled over behind the doctor, peering curiously over his shoulder at his little setup.

“Whatcha doing?” His chin lightly rested on the doctor’s robed shoulder, sending a fresh wave of black ooze streaming down the front of his clothes. Florice eyed the new mess with a disgruntled noise before he returned to unscrewing his vial of ink. 

“It’s possible you were right about my serum being wrong. I'm going to compare that serum I mixed yesterday to past notes. To determine whether it was the mixture interfering with my ability or some other unknown factor,” the doctor explained. 

“I was...overwhelmed yesterday,” he admitted. “It's possible I may have slipped something up in the mix.”

As he picked up his quill and flipped open his journal, the mask’s arm draped around his shoulders. Florice glanced over at him, porcelain features resting inches away on his shoulder. Although he appreciated the affection, now was definitely not the time. 

“You should leave. I need to concentrate, how about you go into the city and work on finding a new host...hmm?” Florice offered lightly. There was a sigh of disappointment as the mask gently nuzzled the doctor’s cheek. 

“Yeah but I like being here with you.” 

“Don’t worry about me, I’m alright now,” the doctor reassured him, feeling himself leaning into the mask’s touch. He quietly set down his quill and reached up, giving the edge of the mask’s porcelain a gentle pat with gloved fingers. 

“I’ll be fine by myself, don’t worry,” he leaned sideways and pressed a chaste kiss to the mask’s cold cheek. Pleased, the mask’s arm tightened and he gave Florice a gentle squeeze before heaving a defeated sigh. 

“Alright then. I’ll leave you to your studies,” he gently patted Florice’s shoulder before he straightened up, presence leaving the doctor’s side. 

“Well my love, I’ll be back to check on you later, don’t think I won't!” He announced, skipping backward towards the bedroom door. Florice gazed over his shoulder. He gave the mask a small wave. 

“I’ll see you around. Just one request–come back with a less messy host please,” he called. 

“You got it, doc!” The mask chirped brightly, whirling around and wrenching open the bedroom door. Florice gazed through the open door at the stairwell beyond, listening to the mask’s rapid footsteps fade away down the hallway.

At his departure the doctor let out a breath, spinning back around on his stool to face his open journal splayed before him. A sudden cold cloud fell over his mind. His chest tightened and he found himself regretting sending the mask away. 

Alas, if he wished to correct his mistakes he would have to focus all his concentration and will onto the tasks at hand. With a steady mind and a cold heart, he picked up the vial of serum and went to work. 

––––––––––––––

Florice spent the majority of the morning pouring over his desk up in the attic bedroom. He flipped through his journal searching for any entries of past experiments detailing any similar experience to the problem he currently faced. Skimming his old notes from his time in Alagadda and even recent experiments and studies he found nothing that hinted at an explanation as to why his ability to raise people from the dead had suddenly faltered. 

His eyes burned into the paper, causing the foreign lettering to blur and swim before his vision as his gaze flew over the various pages. Moving on from his search for an outright explanation, he instead switched to comparing his recent serum to past concoctions. He wanted to be absolutely certain the serum wasn’t the main issue here. He flipped through the old yellowing pages detailing the recipe and held up the vial of thick serum to the light. He let a droplet fall from the glass, the ruby-colored serum bleeding across the page. After a brief few minute wait, the liquid dried and he set to work comparing the sample to an older droplet further back in his journal. 

Both drops checked out with the matching, proper coloration and thickness measured by opacity. So he reached over to his bag and pulled out several containers of the serum’s ingredients, placing them along the desk. He inspected several of the dry herbs and compared them to older pressed herbs contained in the pages of his leather book. 

Similarly his comparison of the serums, the herbs also appeared in perfect condition. 

Sighing, the doctor gathered up the containers strewn about his desk and promptly packed them back away into his black bag’s depths. Then he momentarily sat back on the stool, gazing at the little objects left on the desk before him. The ink vial, the quill and his journal. 

Frowning, he idly rubbed the stubble of his chin in deep thought and came to the undesirable conclusion that he would need to search elsewhere for answers. This little problem of his wouldn’t be the easy simple fix that he’d hoped for. Despite expecting as such from the very beginning, the doctor was still struck with a bolt of dread. 

Of course it was greatly relieving to discover that the serum posed no issue and wasn’t interfering with Florice’s ability…but if the concoction wasn’t the source of Florice’s little problem, something else most certainly was. He still had to uncover the real place where everything had gone wrong and think up a way to fix the problem all the same. 

A scary thought suddenly drifted across the doctor’s thoughts, causing his blood to run cold. 

_ What if I’m simply losing this power? It’s alien after all, it could very well be simply fading away on its own due to time...and...perhaps this means my time as a doctor is up...If my ability is waning…there’s really...nothing I can do to stop it…there’s no way for me to regain it…the power would be lost...forever. No more saving innocents from the plague…. _

No. No no no. That couldn’t be it, no. It didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t  _ only  _ be losing his ability to raise the dead if his powers were waning from time. No. The doctor  _ must  _ have slipped something up in the midst of his procedure. His power couldn’t be fading away...That very notion was simply preposterous. Besides, there was no logical explanation for the sudden loss of his ability. Logically, there was no evidence that anything was interfering with his hands. 

Florice was in a perfect state of health and a stable place of mind…yes...he’d never been better, actually! And his thoughts were  _ always _ in order...yes...yes he was in perfect condition. 

_ What about last night?  _

A voice piped up from the back of his mind. He pushed the thought down, smothering the inner voice with a thick layer of denial. Last night had simply been...an anomaly. A once in a lifetime breakdown. That was...that was nothing. There was nothing wrong with him, nothing wrong with his mind. 

_ The racing thoughts? Constant cold flashes? Racing heart? Crushing weight of pressure to save everyone from this Pestilence? The overwhelming guilt at the sight of all those citizens looking up to you for assistance?  _

Florice flexed his gloved fingers, forcing in a shaky breath. He glared heatedly at his journal resting open on his desk.

_ No. Stop. Be quiet. That is nothing. None of that is important its...its normal. It’s not the issue.  _

A mixture of fear and frustration washed over his mind and he raised a gloved hand, rubbing his temple. Sitting up here holed away in the attic was the very opposite of productive. If he wanted results, he’d have to try some hands on experimentation. Perhaps another pass at reviving the dead patients on the cots downstairs would yield results differing from attempts from the previous day. 

Florice hastily pushed out the stool and clambered to his feet. He leaned over the desk, plucking up the quill, ink vial and journal and neatly tucked the items away back into his bag. He wound the drawstring shut before grabbing the bag and slinging the strap over his shoulder. Then he whirled around and stalked across the bedroom towards the open stairwell. 

––––––––––

The bodies lay lifelessly on the cots downstairs just as he’d left them the previous night. Florice decided the best course of action would be a good old simple attempt at bringing them back just as he usually would. He went through the dead patients, laying a pale hand on each of their foreheads. Then he stepped back, moving to plant himself on the rickety stool in the center of the room besides the operating table. He waited anxiously, his journal open in his lap, quill in hand as his gaze bored into the limp forms sprawled across the cots. 

After what seemed like agonizing hours passed, there was a sudden flurry of movement from across the room. Relief flooded through the doctor and he shot to his feet, hurrying to the side of the woman who had groggily sat up, staring around the clinic in bleary confusion. 

She was the first to wake. Soon after her rousal came the next patient–and the next. Florice quickly tended to their needs. He peered intensely at each of them with a mixture of concern, bewilderment and curiosity as they stiffly managed to pull their clothes on, fighting off the effects of rigor mortis. Each of his patients appeared to be in perfect health and top-notch state of mind despite being clinically dead for a full twenty-four hours. 

Florice made certain that each of the patients' health was in acceptable shape before he excitedly ushered them out the front door and let them return to their daily lives. Relief flooded through him and he felt an intense surge of satisfaction at his success in saving the patients’ lives. He clasped his hands together brightly before spinning around on a heel away from the door and back into the surgical room. He felt almost as if the catastrophic events of the previous night had never occurred. Almost. 

Something across the room along the back wall caught his eye. His heart immediately sank, weighed with dread. All traces of his former relief were suddenly sapped from his bones. His boots clicked lightly across the floorboards as he hurried across the room and came to a stop at the foot of the cot off to the far right. 

There lay the last patient, still lifeless as ever. No, the doctor hadn’t found any success that morning, not at all. No work of his could count as success until  _ all  _ had been brought back– _ all _ had been saved from death. The doctor immediately arrived at the conclusion that his initial suspicions and fears had been right all along. There was most definitely something wrong with the powers residing in his fingertips. 

Accepting this disarming truth was surprisingly easy for the doctor. Instead of letting the hopelessness continue to eat away at the boundaries of his mind, he forced what little shred of determination he had left to become the driving force of motivation for a new approach. Hands losing their god-like powers? No issues here...none at all. The doctor would simply find an alternative way to save his patients. A fresh procedure that wouldn’t require the use of his faulty hands but rather a new, more scientific way to bring his patients back from the dead. 

Of course this cure would take ages to research...years to concoct...a...a lifetime to perfect but…

There was no other choice. Florice had to do what a was necessary in order to continue fulfilling his duty as a doctor. He would work on finding a new way to bring his patients back from death, all the while still saving as many lives as he could with the declining power still left in his fingertips. However, one question still remained, one that didn’t quite harbor a logical solution. Why? Why was his power suddenly declining? 

The doctor hadn’t drawn any solid conclusions yet but a sneaking suspicion was gnawing at the back of his thoughts. 

Perhaps he wasn’t fit enough to wield such a god-like power any longer. Perhaps the responsibilities that came with and the constant overwhelming guilt of not being able to realistically save  _ everyone  _ was slowly beginning to crack him…But that was an issue to pour over another day. Right now, there was work to do. Experiments to be brought to light and performed for more data. After all, the doctor had a perfectly fine test candidate stretched across the cot right here before him, pale and lifeless. He should make use of his resources. 

However, like any good doctor, he should be conducting research before enacting any experiments. Whirling around, the doctor spied his journal and quill lying atop the operating table. A fresh sense of righteousness rose through him. Yes, he would find a cure for his failure, he would fix his mistakes. He shuffled across the room and planted himself on the old stool before flipping open his journal and swiftly burying himself in work. 

–––––––––

The afternoon flew by in an instant. Florice remained in the surgical room as sunlight flooding the room flared and dimmed into the evening hours. 

He gazed down at the unrecognizable body resting on the operating table in a thick pool of blood. Then he glanced to the scalpel dripping with crimson streams clutched in his gloved hand. Before him, sections of the man’s thick skin had been peeled back while his chest had devolved into a mangled mess of organs, tissues and bone. 

A heavy sigh fell from Florice’s lips and his gaze lingered sightlessly just above the deceased patient, fixed on the far wall. He hadn’t come anywhere near even glimpsing a sliver success during his afternoon excursion. With a heavy hand he placed the scalpel on the silver tray situated beside him. A sudden wave of hopelessness crashed over his head and his shoulders sagged at the reality of his situation. His eyes flickered back down to the corpse. He could barely resist the urge to curl up in a tight ball and forget everything...wake up…realize this was nothing but a bad dream…

Florice had been working tirelessly nonstop all afternoon. First, he’d leafed through his journal notes and threw together several hypotheticals and experiments that had the potential to become a foundation for a procedure that would revive others without the use of his hands. 

Next, he pulled out several odd ingredients from his bag. His mind raced in deep thought as he strung together his hypotheticals in order to put together the very first skeletal stages of a possible cure. 

Then came the experimenting. Withdrawing most of his tools from his bag as well as glass vials for samples, he began cutting into the body all sorts of ways. He extracted bone, several samples of brain tissue and a vial of the subject’s blood. As he worked, he became more absorbed and gradually moved with more purpose in his tasks. He started to feel better about everything that had happened and he dismantled the subject’s body without restraint. He lost both his track of time and his sense of neatness as he felt a new purpose surface come to light and he began working harder without care for tidiness or the neatness of his incisions. 

Sometime in the afternoon the mask had burst through the door of the surgical room, startling the doctor who flinched, dropping the sample of the man’s intestines. The mask had simply appeared in order to check up on the doctor. Florice had a sneaking suspicion the mask was much more worried about him then he’d let on after the incident from the previous day. 

However, the mask hadn’t found a new host yet and was tracking in black goop positively everywhere, leaving a messy trail all over the doctor’s workspace. That wouldn’t do. Florice had then hurriedly shooed him from the room, promising that he was alright and that he simply needed to concentrate on his work. After some convincing, the mask finally left and the doctor was able to continue on working without distraction. 

Well after the sun had dipped below the horizon, Florice continued to work tirelessly by the lantern light. The body resting on the table was now in complete disrepair, beyond recognition and in a mangled state. The doctor had thrown out all sense of professionalism, not bothering to attempt to keep the body properly intact. He’d come to regard the dead man on the cold table as a necessary sacrifice. He was a crucial experiment. It was… only one life…One life had to be lost in order to save countless others. 

But still...this wasn’t success. This wasn’t a cure. The doctor wouldn’t be satisfied until he could save  _ everyone. All  _ had to be saved, that was his power and his power gave him purpose–his  _ only  _ purpose. Curing everyone...yes...saving everyone from this...this...plague–this disease. 

Finally, he tore his eyes away from his experiment on the operating table. He glanced at his leather journal resting atop the tableside stand to his right. With the body, Florice had managed to conduct several experiments that had yielded some promising results. Of course he was nowhere near any real re-animation, it was wholly impossible to make that sort of drastic progress in a single measly afternoon. However, he had instead discovered several crucial factors about organ functionality and reactions between various substances and tissues in the body which would serve as the very first baseline for reviving a man. 

However these experiments were minimal and comparably next to nothing in the grand scheme of things. With the rate at which Florice was able to perform his work, the doctor estimated he’d be able to discover the key component to animation in…weeks. No...more. Months–years….decades, even. 

He pressed the palms of his hands into his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. 

People were going to die. People were going to die because of him–he wouldn’t be able to find a cure in time to save everyone. It was next to impossible. He was going to fail...fail the citizens of this city...fail humanity...

Tiredness crashed over the doctor. He viciously rubbed his eyes and raised his head, glaring at the mangled body on the table. 

The body...the... _ mangled… _

As if he’d just opened his eyes for the first time, the reality of the situation suddenly crashed over him as he stared at the various body parts carelessly strewn across the table. Pure horror shot through the doctor, an icy cold flash dousing his body in a wave of dread. He scrambled upright, barely managing off the stool. He tripped over the old seat, knocking the stool over as he stumbled backward in horror, eyes wide as he gazed at the grotesque bloody mess strewn across the table. His fist flew to his mouth as the atrocity dawned on him, the mangled mess of the former man staring back at him from the table. 

What had he...what had he done?

The doctor’s head spun. 

Firstly, he’d...he’d  _ murdered _ that man and then...and then he’d–oh god–he’d desecrated the body leaving–oh no...no no no...there was no chance that man on the table was ever going to wake up–not again–the doctor had...he’d…lied then failed–killed…

Florice hadn’t even been conscious of his own horrid actions….he hadn’t even regarded the consequences–he hadn’t  _ cared  _ about the consequences he placed on that man when he began cutting unceremoniously into the body under the guise of an... _ experiment.  _ No...that wasn’t right. No. What consequences? That man was already dead–that man he wasn’t a man...he was sick...he wasn’t–he was an... _ experiment.  _

The doctor forced a deep inhale, the roar of his heartbeat beginning to fade in his ears. Yes...that  _ thing _ on the table wasn’t a man...no...he’d been sick...that thing on the table... _ it _ was an experiment. 

Yes…

Florice’s head reeled. He forced himself to lower his shaking hands to his sides. Jerking his chin upward he squared his shoulders, exhaling a steady breath. His piercing gaze fell onto the experiment strewn across the table once more. 

He swallowed back a lump in his throat. 

Just an experiment. Nothing more. That’s all. He sucked in a deep breath, feeling his nerves begin to smooth over. He needed rest. He was exhausted, his mind was in no proper state to be conducting anymore research and experimentation. The doctor would continue his work upstairs in his leather bound journal where he could scribble out details and hypotheses for other possible needed ingredients for his cure based on the conclusion of his first tests with this...this... _ experiment _ on the table.

With little feeling left in his weary mind, the doctor stepped forward, numbly leaving his tools in a bloody mess on the silver platter as he gathered up his black bag and journal. Picking up the flickering lantern, he tiredly shuffled out of the room, and kicked the door shut with the sole of his boot as he stepped over the threshold. He ambled down the hallway and turned, climbing the rickety old stairs leading up to the attic bedroom. 

Creaking open the bedroom door he moved across the floorboards toward the desk in the adjacent corner from the door. Then he heavily placed down his belongings, the lantern settling onto the tabletop with a noisy clinking sound. The flame cast a yellow shadow over the doctor’s features as he planted himself on the desk chair. He produced his quill from the bag while his journal fell open before him and he slowly began to fill the pages of his book. 

–––––––––––

The mask’s foot landed on the top step of the staircase producing an audible squeak. They spied the bedroom door slightly ajar, the flickering golden light of a lantern poured through the open doorway, flooding the stairwell. Quietly, they reached out and pushed open the door with a soft creak before they silently slipped into the bedroom. 

They had acquired a new host over the course of the afternoon, so there was no black trail of messy ooze trailing their wake through the building. 

Pausing, the mask stood in the threshold, peering sideways into the room and spying the doctor’s dark shadow hunched over his desk, dark robes messily splayed over the table surface. With a spark of curiosity, the mask silently materialized at his side, gazing down at his limp form sprawled across the desktop. 

Florice was fast asleep. His arm was folded on top of his open journal smudging several freshly written letters across the pages while his cheek was pressed into the crook of his elbow. Strands of his stringy black hair flowed over his shoulders. His eyelids fluttered lightly as the mask’s shadow fell over him. The doctor’s other arm was stretched out across the desk, his gloved fingers still loosely clutching his quill. 

A prickle of worry crossed the mask’s mind as they gazed down at Florice’s limp form passed out over his notes. The mask wasn’t entirely certain  _ why,  _ but the doctor seemed...sort of...off. The mask had burst into the surgical room earlier that day only to witness the doctor cutting almost... _ viciously _ into a cadaver lying on the cold operating table. The scene was quite unlike anything the mask had ever seen from the doctor. He was usually so cold and...professional. Even on bad days Florice was always sure to work his procedure with meticulous patience and utmost neatness. 

And then there was that breakdown he’d undergone the previous night…

The mask sighed, shaking off their apprehension and rubbing their hands together. The doctor was probably just experiencing a bit of stress due to the drastically high rate of infection here in this particular city. The mask shouldn’t be worrying. The two of them would be out of this city in a few weeks anyways. Florice was probably fine. 

However, Florice most certainly  _ wasn’t  _ fine sleeping here hunched over his desk. The mask studied his peaceful expression for a moment. 

_ He must be really drained if he’s passed out on top of his prized notes like that. Huh. I guess practicing necromancy will do that to someone.  _

Well, Florice certainly wouldn’t be able to get a healthy night’s rest (which he clearly desperately needed) splayed out on top of the desk’s hard surface like this. Leaning over, the mask gently untangled the quill from the doctor’s hand and placed the feather on the desk. Then they quietly reached down and slipped an arm underneath his knees. 

“Wha’re you doing?”

The mask paused, glancing up at the doctor who’d cracked open a bleary eye. His mumble was barely comprehensible, voice muffled in the fabric of his arm. 

“I'm gonna move you to the bed ‘cause this desk doesn’t look very comfortable,” the mask informed him pleasantly. 

“Mmm,” the doctor grunted, eyes fluttering shut. 

The mask read his sleepy grumble as a positive acknowledgement. They proceeded to wrap their other arm around the doctor’s upper back before lifting him off his seat with ease. The mask straightened up, the doctor’s head lazily falling against their shoulder. 

With Florice passed out in their arms, the mask silently crossed the bedroom floor. They paused at the bedside before gently lowering the doctor onto the bed, which was still stained black. As he sunk into the mattress, Florice rolled over, facing away from the mask as he curled into a tight ball. The mask reached out, ruffling his hair with a gentle hand before grabbing the edges of the sheets and pulling the blankets up to the doctor’s chin. 

“Than’ you,” he mumbled sleepily, head sinking into the pillow. The mask stepped back. 

“No problem, love. I’m going to the tavern for the night. You have a good rest now,” the mask declared pleasantly. They leaned down and nuzzled the doctor’s cheek, leaving a black smudge across his ghostly pale skin. Then they straightened up and whirled around on a heel, lightly padding across the floorboards. The doctor made no replies as sleep had already claimed him once more. The mask made sure to snuff out the lantern flickering at the desk on their silent way out the door. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appears out of the void for the first time in months. Personally hands you this on a torn piece of paper. Dissipates back into the void for another indiscriminable amount of time

The next several days practically flew by after the doctor’s initial breakdown incident. Over the course of these next three days the mask kept a watchful eye on the doctor, routinely dropping by the clinic two, or even three times an afternoon to peek in. They also attempted to linger around the clinic during the busy morning hours but Florice ushered them out the front doors every time without fail. The excuse was always,

“ _ Too distracting.” _

_ “I need to focus on my work.” _

_ “You’re dripping black ooze all over this room.” _

_ “I need to concentrate.”  _

_ “Go entertain the patients in the waiting room if you need something to do”  _

That last one was the mask’s least favorite. 

While the mask was temporarily banished from the doctor’s workspace, Florice continued to tirelessly slave away each day, numbly working through patient after patient. He seemed more determined than usual and not a second passed by where he wasn’t intensely focused on his work. 

However, the sheer number of patients that entered the clinic each day was always a percentage larger than the numbers that left. The mask was quick to notice this new, rather odd factor. Additionally, over the course of just three days, they promptly became aware of the doctor’s new…”collection.”

In one corner of his surgical room lay a slowly growing pile of corpses. When initially confronted about this fact, the doctor’s expression grew cold and he offered a short, icy explanation of “just test subjects.” However, after a few minutes of the mask’s pestering questions, Florice begrudgingly admitted the truth. 

Apparently, (although he was uncertain as to why) his power to revive the dead was…”faulty”, as he’d delicately put it. Due to the sudden unpredictable and failing nature of his ability, the doctor wanted to find another way to cure his patients. One that required none of his unnatural abilities. Of course, taking the long way around by curing patients via scientific methods would require extensive experimentation as well as years and years of hard work. 

How fitting. It was in the doctor’s very nature to pick up a new logically impossible line of work. This new fixation would inevitably take the place of his old aspirations. 

The following day, and the following day after that–and the one after that–the mask began lingering around corners, keeping a closer eye on the doctor than usual. They drifted around the clinic, meticulously steering out of Florice’s way and keenly eyeing him from afar. With as little as several days’ observation, the mask quickly became aware of just how severe the situation had grown. 

In less than a mere week the doctor’s necromantic abilities had depleted so rapidly that he was only capable of reviving about half of the patients brought into the clinic. The other half of the patients had died, and the doctor had moved these cadavers over with the others in the designated corner of the room. 

Everything about this situation felt like a gradually descending spiral. Or sand grains precariously trickling through an hourglass. Although Florice’s capabilities of raising the dead were waning, the ability to kill with his mere fingertips remained perfectly intact. The mask couldn’t draw a logical conclusion as to the origins of this unbalanced loss of power. Neither could the doctor. 

Nevertheless, time marched on and two more uneventful days crawled by. During the past few evenings, the mask hadn’t whisked off to the novelties of the local taverns, instead lounging in a shadowed corner of the bedroom and silently watching over the doctor as he slept. Florice didn’t seem...quite right. On the surface level, he remained dry and cold as ever which shouldn’t have prompted such concern. The mask couldn’t quite explain  _ why  _ the doctor felt so off putting lately, they only experienced an instinctive feeling that something was  _ wrong _ . 

During the late nights of clocks ticking past midnight, Florice holed himself away in the bedroom. Dying candlelight flickered across his notes as he’d hunch over his desk and pour over his journal. There, he’d vigorously scribble away until the early fingers of orange dawnlight crept over the horizon. The mask never bothered to read his notes. They never cared much for the doctor’s scientific processes. Besides, they’d never be able to sneak a peek nowadays since Florice had picked up a steady habit of keeping his journal close to his chest. 

Even when the sun would rise and creep across the sky, the doctor would seldom leave the clinic. He stepped out of the building a grand total of...maybe...one time during the entire week? He was burning himself out over this whole failing resurrection business. Instead of stepping foot outside the clinic, he retreated further into the shadows and began conducting experiments during daylight hours on top of seeing patients. He made surgical incisions into the spare bodies on hand, extracting samples of organs, bones, fluid and tissue to store away in glass vials that he stored in the depths of his bag. 

The mask had little qualms about this. They were more concerned with the doctor’s engagement. Florice was engaging less and less with the mask as he was much too preoccupied with his “critical work” to lend an ear or partake in their usual banter. Even when he wasn’t preoccupied with his work, he was always too absentminded to pay attention to his companion. The mask often had to snap their fingers in front of the doctor’s nose in order to bring him back to the present after he’d zoned out staring at the bloodstained operating table. He was always frustrated, too and his new restless habits and jittery hands had a peculiar way of irking the mask. 

Based on the doctor’s behavior, the mask deduced that he was overwhelmed with some sort of frustration. He probably blamed himself for his failing powers or something. The late-night vague mumblings tended to entail guilt, fault and the sickness.

The mask hadn’t the foggiest idea where to begin with Florice’s condition. There wasn’t much they could do anyways–they’d always had little power over the doctor’s psyche. Seriously. Over their years with the doctor they’d learned that once that man had charted a course, he stubbornly seldom swayed from it. While they figured the doctor was unwell, they could offer nothing in the way of assistance. They had no experience–no perception of any human ailments. They were especially lacking in knowledge about ailments of the mind. The mask couldn’t remember the days before Alagadda became an interdimensional nexus, they couldn’t remember anything about their humanity so many long boring centuries ago.

Really, they had no choice in the matter. Who knows...maybe if they just ignored the problem it would eventually disappear. They couldn’t do anything except observe the doctor. They’d tried speaking with Florice, making a valiant attempt at mirroring empathy in order to console him about it. However, Florice spoke very little, instead skillfully avoiding the subject and assuring the mask he was fine. He just needed to “find a cure” and then “everything would be fine.”

Yet with each passing day, the mask worries continued to grow. Ohhhh yeah, there was clearly something wrong with the doctor alright. It was really a tragedy that they couldn’t do anything about their partner’s deteriorating mind. Which was ironic, really. The only person in this world they would’ve ever bothered to use their psychological power on in order to help was the only one who couldn’t receive the assistance. Literally...since...the doctor was immune to their effects. 

The mask had begun to feel shadows of doubt and worry loom over the back edges of their thoughts. An emotion they hadn’t felt since their escape from the Midnight Parade. Not necessarily fear...no...it was a different instinct...one that was more akin to apprehension. Something would happen, the mask knew it was coming but they were powerless to prevent it. 

––––––––––––

A full week passed since the two had first landed in Florence. By the end of this week and the beginning of the next, the doctor hadn’t stepped outside the clinic even once, despite the mask’s frivolous pestering that he needed fresh air. 

As the weekend had drawn near, the mask was more attentive when listening to the now seldom conversations the two of them engaged in. They kept a keener ear out when listening to Florice’s quiet ramblings. The mask hoped to decipher his mutterings to deduce what was plaguing the doctor but not much of his speech was comprehensible. 

Sometimes he would reassure himself with words about the people outside, very sick people, ones that needed help. But not just any help–no, they  _ needed  _ to be saved by  _ him. _ There was also mention of a “cure” of some sort sprinkled here and there throughout conversations with both himself and the mask. A presumable cure to the current bubonic plague ravaging the land. 

Briefly, the mask piped up and asked the doctor about this self-described ‘cure’ of his. Florice then feverishly explained how everyone was prone to the sickness, both the people outside on the streets and those in the clinic. Remaining in his clinic as much as possible was imperative in order for him to thoroughly conduct his work. He believed saving patients and running crucial experimentations would inevitably lead him to the discovery and concoction of the cure. The cure would be a way to save the people without the need of his waning powers.

According to him, the cure was essential and the  _ only  _ way for him to be able to save everyone from the sickness. He then proclaimed that saving everyone and finding the cure was his responsibility and his alone. After all, he  _ was _ the only person in this dimension blessed with godlike powers. He was also the only one who had somehow managed to begin losing said godlike power. Because of this, the doctor  _ absolutely needed  _ to “right his wrongs to the people” since he truly believed that  _ he _ was at fault for his waning powers. His cure for the sickness was the only way to continue saving humanity. 

There was definitely a lot for the mask to unpack in this answer. However, they understood that the doctor was dedicated to his cause, that much was certain. 

As they stood, leaning against the bloodstained wall of the surgical room they observed the doctor bustle across the floor and rifle through cabinets as he searched for a spare sheet to spread over the bloodied, mangled corpse strewn across the table. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come outside with me for a moment? It’s just a short walk and the canals are very pretty this time of day,” the mask jerked a thumb over their shoulder to gesture toward the exit beside them. 

Florice paid them no mind as he continued to rifle through the cabinet across the room. 

“Yes I’m quite certain. I’m much too busy at the moment for a break–”

The mask let out an exasperated sigh, flicking away a droplet of black that had rolled down their cheek. He was  _ always  _ too busy for a break. 

“–I’m so close to finding the beginning stages to the cure, you know. Soon, I’ll be able to–ah, there it is,” Florice broke off, pulling out an old sheet covered in mothballs from the top shelf of the cabinet. 

“Are you really sure? It’ll just be a moment and it’ll probably make you feel better,” the mask pressed, folding their arms across their chest as they eyed the doctor delicately spread the worn sheet over the corpse on the table. He shook his head. 

“I’m fine, my love, thank you. Don’t worry about me, I’ve just got to finish work for the afternoon,” the doctor explained in a level tone. The mask shrugged, pushing off the wall as a wave of frustration overtook their thoughts. 

“Suit yourself,” they replied loftily, frustration boiling beneath their tone. “As long as you’re having fun here.” 

They turned and bluntly shoved open the clinic door, a dark cloud descending over their thoughts.

–––––––––––

The mask was quite comfortably warm under the sheets, mind you. Their knees were loosely tucked to their chest as they sunk into the mattress and stained the sheets a healthy black. The doctor’s pale twitching hands were looped around their middle as he curled around them, legs intertwined with theirs and nose buried into the crook of the mask’s neck. He was fast asleep–the mask could feel the deep rise and fall of his chest against their back. 

The upstairs bedroom was pitch black save for a beam of light from the crescent moon peeking through the window above the bed and casting pale blue light over the blankets. The mask had been staying with the doctor for the past few evenings out of subconscious worry. Since their newest host was only a week old, their deterioration was minimal. Which meant the doctor was willing to let them stay and cuddle in the same bed. 

During the past couple nights the mask had noted the doctor’s restlessness gradually growing. This night was no different. 

There was a rustle of sheets as the doctor rolled over, his presence leaving the mask’s side as he restlessly settled on the other side of the bed. 

Idly staring at the wall, the mask waited for Florice’s inevitable fit, which had occurred the nights before. 

They ran over the stages in their mind. 

First would come the incomprehensible muttering an anxious unconscious mumbling. Then the occasional twitch or flail of a limb in his sleep. This was often followed by an increase in volume and drive in the doctor’s sleep talk. The scene that unfolded always felt uncanny to the mask, seeing their partner in such a wound up, uncontrolled state. Out of control yet completely unconscious. Florice would continue to senselessly get quite upset, even go as far as to cry out. Then, after a few seconds of thrashing about he would–

A scrabble of sheets and a choked gasp sounded from behind the mask. They lazily rolled over and propped themselves up on the pillow with an elbow, chin perched atop their fist. 

Through the dim moonlight from the window, they were able to pick out Florice’s stark silhouette sitting bolt upright, his palms pressed into the mattress. Frazzled hair brushed his shoulders and his breath came in short, rapid gasps as he struggled to breath. His yellow eyes were alight with the faint starlight. 

_ Something’s not right.  _

The mask pushed themself upright, palms sinking into the mattress as they peered through the dark at the doctor. 

He was visibly disoriented and shaking. His arms trembled as he struggled to keep himself upright. His breath came in series’ of rapid, shaky inhales and wobbly exhales. Shining sweat rolled down his neck and clung to his clammy cheeks. 

Trembling violently, Florice let out a deep, shaky exhale before burying his tears in the palms of his hands as he hunched over, weakly drawing up his knees. He muttered a few hoarse whispers of self-reassurance that came muffled and unintelligible against his hands. 

He seemed so wrapped up with himself he was completely oblivious of the mask’s fully conscious presence beside him. 

“Doc? You alright there?” The mask shifted, peering intently at the doctor. At the sound of their voice Florice stiffened, shooting upright. He hastily swiped a furious hand across his eyes and fixed his gaze downwards on the damp bedsheets beside him.

“Yes...I’m fine,” he bit out, running a set of trembling fingers through his tangled hair. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Unpleasant dream. That’s all. Don’t worry about it,” he answered curtly, his clammy cheeks glistening with a mixture of sweat and tears. He let out a shaky sigh. The mask could practically feel the tremors radiating off him through the mattress they shared.

“I don’t believe you,” the mask countered lightly. 

“My apologies for waking you. It was a simple nightmare, it won’t happen again–” 

“Don’t you lie to me now.”

Florice pressed his lips into a thin line and blinked, slowly raising his head and gazing at the mask. In the dim light they gestured with one hand.

“This is the third night in a row that you’ve been flailing around and making that awful racket–These adjacent buildings are connected you know. The neighbors are going to think we’re doing... _ things  _ up here–” the mask chortled. They stopped short at the doctor’s bleary, unamused glare.

“Oh come on, that was funny!” They threw up an incredulous hand. Florice sighed darkly, rubbing a hand across his clammy forehead. His shoulders trembled.

“Seriously, what’s gotten into you?” The mask piped up again, their expression falling sideways as they peered expectantly at the doctor. 

“I’m tired. I should be sleeping now,” Florice muttered hoarsely. “But…” he trailed off, almost reluctantly. 

“Come on now...But what?”

“I...can’t sleep. Not like this–I–I can’t even control myself anymore–” Florice’s wobbly voice rose as he lifted his arm in a vague gesture. He struggled to manage another steady inhale and was growing more agitated. 

Figuratively, the mask frowned. 

“Why don’t you come with me for a walk?” They offered. “Maybe it’ll cool your nerves. The moonlight on the canals is always very pretty this time of night.”

Florice shook his head, furiously rubbing his trembling wrist.

“No...no I’m alright–” 

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Just come walk with me,” the mask insisted, leaning over and gently resting a palm on the doctor’s bare forearm. He shuddered at the touch but the mask refused to pull away. 

“Please? For me?” The mask pleaded softly. Their shift in tone yielded results. Florice’s eyes flickered down at their hand on his arm before he sighed. 

“Alright. A walk…” he agreed softly. The mask gave his pale arm a soft pat before hastily whirling around and peeling the blankets off their legs. Then they bounced off the mattress onto their feet. Behind them, there was a rustle of sheets as Florice slithered off the bed. The mask turned to see Florice plucking up his gloves from the night stand. 

Under the dim light of the bedroom, Florice struggled for a moment as the tremors wracking his hands made the simple action of pulling his gloves on much more difficult. 

The mask turned away, blindly feeling through the dark room before they stopped short at the low table, feeling around for the candle and holder resting on the surface. Finding the silver holder, they quickly sparked at the wick before plucking up the small tray and whirling around, the warm yellow light washing over their porcelain features in a glow. 

The doctor shuffled across the room to the mask’s side. 

“Do you want to carry it?” The mask offered him the flame. He nodded, gingerly accepting the silver holder. The doctor was intently focused on his hands, making certain that the unsteadiness of his fingers would not lose their grip on the holder. The mask stepped towards the bedroom door, twisting the knob and letting the door swing open with a quiet creak of the hinges. They paused, gesturing in invitation down the shadowed stairwell. 

“After you, doc.”

Florice ambled down the stairs and the mask followed suit closely behind. The doctor quietly ambled down the hallway, his single light casting long shadows along the wooden corridor and the mask silently trailed behind him. Their eyes remained glued to the back of the doctor’s dark silhouette cast by the flame he clutched in his hands. 

When the doctor reached the front door, he abruptly paused. The mask strode up beside him. 

“What’s the hold up?” 

“You take the candle. I’ll just end up dropping it,” Florice muttered shortly, thrusting out the silver holder toward the mask with a visible shaky arm. The mask shrugged, airily plucking the flame from the doctor’s gloved hand. 

“Of course, dearest.”

The mask swore they saw a smile touching the doctor’s lips as he quickly turned away and grabbed the door handle. 

A cool night breeze ruffled through the mask’s hair as the pair stepped out onto the front stone steps of the clinic. Florice swung the door shut behind him before shuffling down the stairs to join the mask waiting on the curb of the narrow cobblestone street. 

With their remaining free hand, the mask offered an elbow to the doctor who quietly looped his arm through theirs, pulling them in.

“Where exactly are you taking me, again?” Florice asked quietly as the mask stepped off, leading the doctor along beside him. The two began ambling down the street. 

“A rather lovely spot if I do say so myself. It’s just a road around the corner–so don't you get cold feet now,” the mask chided playfully. Florice let out a small “hmph.”

The pace of their footsteps unconsciously synced up as the two entities strolled down the dark Italian street by the light of the candle flickering in the mask’s right hand. Glancing up into the sprawling black night, millions of white pinpricks scattered across the sky. A brilliant white moon hung in the lower skies, indicating the earliest hours of the morning. 

There were no other persons out for a stroll at such an hour besides the mask and the doctor. 

Silence echoed about the streets, blanketing the sleepy city. Dark wispy clouds were beginning to blanket the edges of the moonlight. A cool breeze whisked through the street, rustling the doctor’s loose nightshirt and touseleing the mask’s hair. The silence not only smothered the streets but also any room for conversation between the pair as they ambled through the black shadows cast by a row of the  _ medici  _ guild’s buildings. However, the silence was not one of malicious or furious nature. Simply a cool balance of comfortable quietness almost as refreshing as the breeze whisking through the streets. 

By the light of the single flame, the two arrived at an intersection. Directly in front of them sat the canal parallel to the edge of the street with the road continuing off to the left and right. The doctor paused but the mask tugged him leftwards, their feet already moving forward. 

“It’s this way.”

They strolled alongside the black waters of the canal, a cold draft wafting up from the waters gently lapping against the stones. This evening jaunt in the refreshing night air gave Florice time to calm himself and for the mask to gather their thoughts. 

Just up ahead sat the stone bridge arching over the pitch black waters of the canal. The mask tugged Florice’s arm, raising the candle in order to peer through the dark. 

“Look, we’re here already,” they proclaimed brightly as the two approached. Leading the doctor, the mask turned and stepped up the angled pathway. At the peak of the arching bridge, they paused while Florice drew up beside them. After gingerly placing down the silver candle holder on the raised stone railing with a clink, the mask’s fingers dug into the stones as they leaned over the edge, peering into the rippling waters below. 

The canal waters imitated a flawless painting of the night sky above. The moon shone brightly, white light glancing off ripples while stars dotted the sparkling pool. Clouds were lazily drifting closer to the moon. 

“Look at this. Lovely, isn’t it,” The mask started, glancing over their shoulder as Florice stepped up beside them. The sleeves of his nightshirt brushed against the mask’s arm. His hands were folded behind his back as he warily peered into swirling waters below.

“Yes, I suppose it is pretty,” he observed, the faint candlelight illuminating his profile. The mask turned sideways, propping an elbow on the cobblestone balcony as their gaze evenly settled on the doctor.

“So what’s wrong dear? You’ve been so...” the mask searched for a suitable word. “...reserved, lately.”

Florice exhaled a heavy sigh, leaning forward. He unfolded his hands from behind his back and clasped them together, settling his fists on the bridge’s stone railing beside the mask’s. 

“Everyone is growing sick. It’s simply...overwhelming,” he chose his words carefully as he drummed his gloved fingers along his knuckles. 

“I have a feeling that's not the only thing bothering you.”

The doctor remained silent, his gaze boring into the black waters below. With a twinge of annoyance at the lack of attention, the mask softly nudged the doctor’s shoulder with a free hand. 

“C’mon doc, you’re worrying me here,” they protested indignantly. Florice shifted, dipping his head as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

“I can’t save everyone,” he mumbled so quietly the mask could barely discern his words. 

“This plague...it’s...taking so many people and I can’t save them, not all of them. I’m failing my duties as a doctor–I’m failing the people they all just–” the doctor paused lowering his hand back down to the railing and flexed his gloved fingers. “–slipping away and they’re all right there too, slipping right through my grasp.”

Florice raised his head, staring out at the buildings and cobblestone streets stretching along either side of the canal. 

“I can’t save them, for some reason. My abilities...they’re slipping away too…” he explained heavily. The mask turned forwards, gazing out across the rippling starlit waters of the canal. 

“Yeah I know. Have you figured out why, yet?” They asked idly. They were genuinely curious. The last time they’d spoken to Florice about this particular topic several days earlier, he’d been quite cold and reluctant to speak on the matter. According to him, he was clueless as to why he was losing his abilities. However, the mask could easily glean the truth from his knit expression and the slight uncertainty wavering in his tone. He knew something but he was too afraid to confront the knowledge he’d figured any further. 

The doctor’s gloved fingers drummed along the cobblestone railing. A pause of silence stretched between the two figures on the bridge.

“No…” at last he began slowly. “I haven’t been able to figure out what’s happened to my power. My hands...they’re slowly changing...they can longer fully restore life or health–instead I can only take life, destroy it–and it's worse because not only am I unable to save those who  _ need _ my help, I actively destroy them. I’m–I’m–” the doctor sucked in a deep breath, fingers curling into tight fists. 

“I’m failing them–failing myself too and I’m hurting them but...but I still need to save them...its for their own sakes…for the sake of something larger than them and perhaps even me…” the doctor’s words faded into the cool night air, hovering in the draft wafting up from the canal below. 

The mask pondered his words for a moment. Clearly the doctor had lost his ability to restore life but...

_ “Something larger than them? Something possibly larger than the doctor?”  _

_ What the hell is that supposed to mean?  _ They puzzled over the doctor’s metaphorical speech and snuck a sideways glance at Florice leaning against the railing. Annoyance flitted through their thoughts. If he just spoke without the damn riddles this whole problem could already be fixed. 

They fought down the maddening urge to seize the doctor’s shoulders and roughly shake him in hopes of motivating him to  _ fucking speak properly. _

Empathy was a very foreign concept to the mask. 

But seriously, god! This conversation was going nowhere and the mask had a sneaking suspicion they’d get absolute zero real answers to their questions concerning the doctor’s recent shift in behavior and wellbeing. 

Masking their infuriated grievances, the mask spoke again in an idle tone. Black substance dribbled down their chin and dripped onto the stone railing. 

“Okay, I get that losing your power is sad but I don’t get why ‘failing’ all these people here–” the mask waved a vague hand. “–is so important. They don’t even know who you are, you shouldn’t care about whatever happens to them.” 

The doctor glanced at the mask, his tired eyes alight with a strange flame.

“I care because they’re innocent people. It’s my duty–its always been my duty to save them from this Plague. I can’t simply abandon my years of hard work. There’s this sickness and it’s...it’s  _ everywhere.  _ It’s  _ death _ –it’s just nothing but death everywhere I turn and I can’t look away...not from the people who need me,” he explained feverishly, a strange note of confidence shining through his speech. 

The doctor glanced away from the mask and back toward the waters. His shoulders sagged and his tone fell once more.

“...But...I can’t look at them anymore. I can’t look at their bodies anymore–so sickly...so...dead. I see them now, you know. I see them every time I close my eyes. Every last one of them. All those helpless, innocent victims of this disease–especially the ones I failed...the ones I could not save. My work...it’s lost its meaning. I’m trying to find an alternative solution for this problem–” the doctor gestured with one gloved hand. “–but it's difficult. I'm losing my way. I’m losing the people who need me–I’m losing my patients–I’m losing everything.” 

At his words the mask placed a heavy hand over the doctor’s curled fist, squeezing tightly. Florice glanced down at the vicelike grip of the mask’s fingernails digging into his gloved hand. 

“Stop being dramatic. That’s my thing. You’re not losing everything, you have me,” the mask glanced over drily, their annoyances replaced by light exasperation and even a twinge of concern. They met the doctor’s dull eyes with an even gaze. The corner’s of Florice’s lips twitched.

“That’s true...but...even you cannot help. There’s just...too much death–so much suffering and I– _ I  _ can see it,  _ all  _ of it...them too...I can see them too, everyone who I’ve failed. I can’t fail everyone else, I have to find a way to save them–I need to find a cure for it–this Pestilence.” 

Still grasping the doctor’s hand, the mask gently leaned over into the doctor’s side, their sleeve brushing against Florice’s. The top edge of their porcelain features bumped against his shoulder. 

“But is all that really necessary? There’s no need to waste away worrying about the lives of strangers. Who cares about the pestilence? It’s only one plague, there will be more. It's just how it is, there's no point in trying to stop it,” the mask offered quietly. Beside them, Florice shook his head. 

“No, you don’t understand...I don’t really expect you to, either. You’re not mortal, you don’t understand the fascination and importance and complexity of such a short lived life…I’ve got to save everyone, even those with little time remaining in their lives,” the doctor explained, voice suddenly rising. He made a vague gesture.

“You see, there’s more diseases. One of which plays a part in this epidemic but is much bigger in the grand scheme,” Florice explained feverishly as he gestured wildly with one gloved hand. His eyes were stretched wide as he gazed out across the canal. 

“There’s a Pestilence. The plague across this land is only the beginning–the real plague is far worse. It’s–It’s the constant march towards death. It’s death–mortality. Fear. Mortality is the sickness of all. And fear of mortality–it’s a parasite that destroys fragile life from...from the inside. There’s no cure for this disease–not as of yet. I have to–I can’t go on watching innocent lives fall to this–this Pestilence...I have to find–”

“That’s not right,” the mask interjected. They withdrew their hand and stole a half step to the side, returning to their original position. They leaned an elbow against the stone railing and peered sideways at the doctor before them. In turn, he glanced over and coolly studied the mask with one skeptically raised eyebrow. 

“Oh?”

“Nah–that doesn’t sound right–not at all. And  _ you’re  _ supposed to be the human expert doctor man here,” a chuckle fell from the mask’s mouth and they shook their head, waving a hand as black goo splattered on the cobblestones beneath their soles. Their laughter fell silent and their tone instantly shifted to a steely edge as they addressed Florice.

“This isn’t right. I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea in your head. Death, destruction–it isn’t sickness, it's part of the natural cycle.”

Florice shook his head, pushing off from the railing and spinning to face the mask with furrowed brows. 

“You’re not listening. The Pestilence isn’t death, it–”

“I don’t care what it is,” the mask interrupted bluntly, a sudden blaze of anger rising beneath their thoughts. “Because in reality, it’s just a silly fantastical idea that’s taking over your mind. You need let go, doc. You’re not well. You’re convincing yourself of a lie and it’s hurting you. It’s making you–different. It’s taken over your mind–I should know how that works,” The mask hissed, suddenly flooded with frustration. They didn’t bother masking their grievances as they teetered forward, raising a finger at the doctor who blinked, reeling backwards in astonishment at the mask’s sudden shift in temperature. 

“Can’t you hear yourself? Don’t you see yourself? This  _ Pestilence  _ isn’t real–it’s some lie you thought up in order to cope w–”

“Tell that to the countless bodies piling up on these streets,” Florice countered coldly, hastily recovering from his initial surprise and meeting the mask’s furious gaze with a cool glare. His shoulders bristled. 

“And tell that to the failed experiments residing in my clinic. This Pestilence  _ is a sickness–”  _ the doctor hissed between his teeth, glaring down at the mask with a steely eye. He did not take very kindly to his priorities being challenged. “–and I  _ will  _ be the one to eradicate it– _ I  _ will be the one to  _ cure it.”  _

The mask paused, stunned as they gazed up at the doctor’s flaming yellow eyes. Florice clenched his jaw. Realization suddenly dawned on the mask,

_ He’s...he’s been hooked on this idea too long–he’s not going to let go that easily.  _

The thought easily flitted across the mask’s thoughts. 

_ Perhaps if I could wear him–I could get in his head, fix his mind– _

No. The mask would never resort to such a drastic measure–they would never do something like that to Florice–especially something that could quite possibly break all trust and make matters even worse. 

They shook their head, backing up under the doctor’s steely glare. With a light chuckle, they gaped at Florice and pointed a finger almost accusingly. 

“Oh my, you’ve gone mad, haven’t you?” 

The doctor’s shoulders bristled at the mask’s proclamation. He studied the mask with little more than yellow slits. 

“Who are you to speak of madness?” He spat. “I’m not mad, I’ve simply learned the truth of this world. The Pestilence  _ is  _ here,” his boot stomped on the bridge stones as he stole a single stride forward. He spread his hands. 

“It’s here. It’s everywhere. And it's  _ my  _ job to save everyone from it–this sickness. I  _ have  _ to save them–I  _ must _ –otherwise everything will have been for nothing,” Florice folded his arms in front of his chest, glaring down at the mask standing not a foot away. The mask was not intimidated nor amused by the doctor’s cold gaze looming over them. Their expression contorted into a pained grimace as anger sprung at the forefront of their thoughts. 

“What’s wrong with you?” They hissed, black dribbling from the corner of their anguished mouth. “What happened to you, doc, huh? Ever since a little less than a month ago you–you started changing and now–” the mask gestured up and down at the doctor’s bristling figure. They suppressed a giggle. “You’ve lost it. Completely lost it. Look at yourself.” 

Florice ignored the mask’s jab, instead furiously rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“You don’t understand. Why–”

“Sorry, didn’t catch that. Speak up,” the mask snidely interjected the doctor’s mutter. Florice lowered his hand, glaring at the frowning porcelain features before him. 

“I  _ said _ , you don’t understand. Why don’t you understand? Innocent people are dying, they–”

“ _ Exactly! _ ” The mask exclaimed, throwing up their hands. “They die every day! Thousands! They don’t–”

“Which is why I must find the cure for the Pestilence and not just this plague,” Florice finished. The mask’s words fell to an abrupt halt and they glared up into the doctor’s angry eyes. 

There used to be a spark of something more in there–signs of an intelligent kind man who was driven to help others, someone so kindly he was able to assist those who desperately needed assistance–someone who was even able to help the Black Lord.

But now, standing on this bridge stretching over the canal, silhouetted by the light of a single orange candle, a different kind of spark smoldered behind the same piercing gaze the Black Lord had first seen in that Library so long ago. 

Oh he was certainly still driven all right. Driven to madness. 

“You don’t  _ need _ to find anything, doc,” the mask seethed, rocking back and forth on their heels in agitation. 

“Of course I do,” the doctor countered. “I  _ must _ stop the fear and the mortality. It’s my life’s work and I don’t intend to rest until my work is complete,” he crossed his arms, fingers drumming against his sleeve as he gazed down coldly at the mask. 

Scoffing, the mask shook their head, a warbled chuckle bubbling up from their throat. 

“Oh dear, you’ve changed. Really, truly changed. You used to be so brilliant... so–”

“If you’re simply going to stand there and belittle me, then leave.”

The mask’s gaze shot up. They gaped for a moment, casting the doctor a blank stare. Then, haughtily drawing themselves up, their hands fell to their hips, shoulders bristling. 

“I’m not–”

“You’ve changed too,” Florice interjected, icy venom dripping from his tone as he struggled to contain his fury. He stepped forward, pushing a gloved finger into the center of the mask’s chest. They ignored his gesture, their blank gaze remaining affixed to the doctor’s cold, stony expression. 

“You used to be helpful, you know. You had use when you were around. That’s why I tolerated your presence and let you stay,” he growled coldly. 

His words washed over the mask in a tidal wave and as the waters receded, left them in a brief state of shock. Deep inside the blackest depths of their mind, thoughts furiously churned in a compressed swirling mass of tightly knit emotions. Like a sphere, or a knot. As the swirling knot of emotions painfully tightened, something inside of them cracked.

_ I used to be helpful. I had... _ use. 

So...that’s all they were. That’s all they had been and apparently, it would be all they ever were. Someone useful–no–some _ thing  _ use _ less. _ Just another  _ tool _ –just a mask being cast aside as its  _ usefulness _ ran out. Nothing more. 

Well, did the mask expect anything less? Of course not! They were a tool. They’d always been a tool. Taken back to the days in the Court, they’d been nothing but a tool to the King. A simple jester–a tool of amusement. Even after becoming the Black Lord, they hadn’t risen above the status of a tool. Ownership had simply transferred from the King to the next most powerful entity in the city– the Ambassador. Now, even as they had been cast into this dreadful backwater dimension–they were regarded as nothing but a tool. It seemed no matter where they turned–no matter who they spoke to, the outcome was the same. 

A tool. A  _ thing.  _

Black ooze dribbled down the mask’s neck as raw fury slowly trickled down through the host’s body–their body, dripping from head to toe. The sensation was blinding and the mask wordlessly reeled backward the broken sphere of tightly knit emotions shredded itself apart. 

For the first time, they were stunned, frozen. Their heels remained glued to the ground. The furious haze shrouding their vision blurred their eyesight and they gazed sightlessly up at the doctor. They didn’t want to hear the doctor’s next words but could do nothing even as they fell. 

Florice spread his gloved fingers across the mask’s chest and angrily shoved them away, coldly eyeing the mask stumble backward in astonishment. Then he folded his arms across his chest.

“If you’re not willing to assist me in my work any longer, leave.”


End file.
